


Guardian

by Tell_Me_Tales



Series: Travels and Journals [3]
Category: Gravity Falls, Monsterfalls AU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Monster Falls, Angst, Bill Cipher Is His Own Warning Tag, Blood and Gore, Canon Divergence - A Tale of Two Stans, Complicated Relationships, Courtly Love, Creature Fic, Estrangement, F.I.N.E., F/M, Family, Ford is a Mess, GarGrunkle, Gargoyles - Freeform, Grunkle4Grandpa, Jealousy, Magic Spells and Sigils, Marriage, Mind Games, Nightmares, No Portal Adventures, Pines Family circa 1980s, Pre-Series, Romantic Friendship, Sexual Situations, Stan and Carla being Stan and Carla, Stangst, Strained Relationships, The Mindscape, Work In Progress, bed sharing, he's not the only one, implied infidelity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2018-08-08 18:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 51,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7769266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tell_Me_Tales/pseuds/Tell_Me_Tales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something a bit... <i>different</i> happens when Ford kicks Stan into the side of the control panel and brands an unknown sigil into his brother's flesh. After witnessing his twin become a gargoyle, he is forced to admit that he will need more help if he wants to successfully find a way to change Stanley back.</p><p>Oh, and safeguard the universe. That's still a priority.</p><p>
  <span class="small">A <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/search/monsterfalls+au">Monsterfalls AU</a> story, of a sort.</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Transformation

**Dimension 23**  
**Gravity Falls, OR**  
**February 22, 1982**

The scorching surface _burns_ through the flesh of his shoulder when his twin kicks him back into the control panel. In that moment, all Stan knows is pain. He doesn't think as the pressure holding him down disappears, only _reacts_.

* * *

Ford recoils in horror as his brother screams. He'd forgotten about the sigil there. Worse, he has no idea what the sigil actually _is_ \-- just that Bill had insisted upon its inclusion -- and he's just knocked Stanley directly into it. "Oh my gosh! I'm so sor--" he doesn't get the chance to finish the sentence. A wild punch from Stan sees to that.

Ford stumbles back into the portal room, reeling from the force of his brother's blow. The glowing yellow eyes glaring up at him from the doorway nearly send Stanford into a panic attack, but then the writhing figure on the floor growls and, ironically enough, reassures him that he will not be forced to face his worst fears just yet. (Bill is never so inarticulate.) His voice shakes as he calls out, "Stanley?"

His answer comes in the form of wings and claws and long, sharp teeth suddenly lunging at him. His mind makes the identification even as he scrambles out of the way: Gargoyle. His brother has been transformed into a _gargoyle_ , and a very angry one at that. When Stan roars and prepares to attack again, Ford's panic reaches new heights. Desperate, Ford chants from memory one of the few spells he _knows_ work on gargoyles.

Stan's new form freezes in place and is quickly consumed in stone. Some small, completely hysterical part of Ford notes that Stan makes for a very grotesque and frightening statue. Claws extended and teeth bared in a vicious snarl, Stanley looks anything but welcoming. Ford hesitantly walks closer. Any other creature may have appeared docile in this situation, but gargoyle sleeping habits are something unique to their species.

Stanford swallows nervously before reaching out to touch his twin's shoulder. There are no words for the sheer amount of relief that courses through him upon finding the stone warm beneath his fingertips. Ford closes his eyes and releases the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. Stanley will be fine. ...Well, he'd wake up in due time anyway. Stanford isn't sure how to go about undoing the transformation, but he'll figure it out one way or another.

"Stanley, I know that right now you're probably very scared. Or, at the very least, you're still angry with me, but I need you to listen to what I'm saying." Ford hopes the information he has on gargoyles is accurate, but he can't be sure. He's only ever encountered two before this, and they'd been a pair of young pranksters passing through the Gravity Falls area. He has no way to know how much of what they had told him was factual. "I'm not sure of the specifics, but it seems you've been turned into a gargoyle. I promise you, I'm going to find a way to reverse this. I've put you under a Sleeping Curse, which is why you can't move. Don't worry. It only lasts for twenty-four hours, or so. I don't know how coherent you actually are at the moment, but I'll be back before you wake up. Right now, I've got to --" Ford gasps as the gravity in the room fluctuates.

"The portal!" he yelps, panic returning in full force, "I've got to shut it down!"


	2. Call for Help

Ford twists the spiralling phone cord around the fingers of his right hand as he waits for the other end to stop ringing.

He shouldn't be making this call. He has no right to even ask for such a large favor; except now that Stan is in such a precarious situation, Ford doesn't know what else he can do. He's out of ideas and down to his final option. Right or wrong, he needs the help and there's no one else he can turn to anymore. His last hope to avoid this very course of action is currently under a spelled sleep in his basement.

The cheerful greeting he receives when the other end is finally picked up is almost enough to make him hang up. He doesn't.

"It's Stanford." He waits for the instant flurry of worried questions to die down before he says anything else, "I'm fi-- Well, okay, no. I know I'm not fine, but -- Let me talk!" Ford flinches when he realizes how loud his outburst was. He huddles closer to the wall the phone is mounted on and turns just a little bit more to face the corner of the room. He can still feel the scrutiny of the other patrons' staring eyes and it causes a shudder to run down his spine. "That's not the issue right now. I'm... I'm calling because I need you to come back to Gravity Falls -- I know! I know! And that hasn't changed, but --" Ford untangles his fingers from the twisted cord in order to hold the phone with both hands. "I found Stanley."

The other side of the line is silent.

"Before you ask, he's alright. Mostly. He isn't injured! It's just that... something happened. A... Gravity Falls kind of something. Look, it will be easier to explain it once you're here. ...You will come, won't you?" The man allows himself a relieved sigh upon hearing the answer. "Thank you. It would be best if you arrive within the next twelve hours -- I know it's short notice. I'm sorry, but it is imperative that you come as quickly as you can. Stanley and I will just have to make do, if you can't, of course, but it would be -- Well, actually, the house phone is still disconnected so I'm using the one at Greasy's Diner. I --" Ford glances over his shoulder. "Yes, she's here, should I -- Alright, one moment."

Ford takes a deep breath and steels himself for what he is about to do. "Miss Wentworth," he calls, "Could you come to the phone, please?"

The waitress wipes her hands off on her apron and smiles at him. "Sure thing, handsome!" she says as she makes her way across the diner, "And haven't I told you before to call me Susan?"

Ford clears his throat noisily and hands over the phone. "That's quite alright, Miss Wentworth."

"Hello?" the woman says after she accepts the handset, "Oh! Hiya, Hot Stuff! How are you? I shoulda known it would be you Stanford was talking to. ... That's great, sugar! I can't wait to catch up! You'll have to tell me all about where you've been hiding these past few months. ... I'd be happy to! Later today, you said? ... Shouldn't be a problem, and I'm sure I can get Georgie to let me have tomorrow off if I need to. ... Oh, don't you worry about that none, sweetie! Really, hun, I'm looking forward to it! ... Oh, sure! He's still right here. Just a minute."

Susan smiles and offers him the phone. "Wants to talk to you again, good lookin'."

"Ah, yes. Thank you," Ford tentatively takes the handset from the waitress.

"I trust that's taken care of? ... Good. And you'll be -- Good. Good. I need to get back to the house and do some more research, see if I can figure out what to do about Stanley. ... I promise that he'll be okay for the time being. I just don't think he'd appreciate remaining in his current state forever, is all. He's in no immediate danger so far as I can tell. ... Thank you. I'll be there to greet you as soon as you arrive at the house."

Ford waits until he hears the dial tone before hanging up. The man sighs and leaves the diner. He has work to do.


	3. It's Complicated

_'Relax. So you haven't seen Ford in a few months and he already sounded like he was backsliding again over the phone. So what? That's no big deal! ...Okay, so it is a pretty big deal. But! It's nothing you haven't dealt with before. You dug him out of that pit once! You can do it again! ...Okay. Alright. He did his fair share of digging too. But that's okay. Friends should help each other. It's okay that he helped you get back on your feet too._

_'And... You're going to see Stanley again. Finally. So, there's that. ...God, I feel like I'm going to throw up._

_'No, no! Everything is going to be okay! It will all work out! ...Somehow. Just stay positive! And breathe. Remembering to breathe is a good thing. Relax.'_

"Ma'am?"

Carla blinks and finds herself back in reality, sitting in the passenger seat of the Gravity Falls police cruiser. "Yes!" The woman winces at the pitch her voice hits. _'Smooth, Carla. Real smooth.'_

Sheriff Michaels frowns in worry. "We've arrived, Ma'am," he gestures out the window to the wooden building only feet in front of the car, "Are you alright?"

"Fine. Fine," Carla hurries to assure the man, "Just a bit anxious. I'm in for a bit of a... Well, I guess you could call it a family reunion, of sorts. And things are a little..." Carla sighs deeply and rakes the fingers of one hand through her bangs, pulling the hair away from her face for a moment. "It's complicated."

The sheriff's frown deepens and he opens his mouth to say more, but he's interrupted when the front door of the cabin bursts open without warning.

Stanford Pines stands in the doorway and yells, "Go back to your masters! I've already given them what they asked for!"

"Jesus!"

"Oh, God," Carla groans, "he's started using the crossbow again." She takes a deep breath only to have any thoughts of calming techniques leave her head when she sees Sheriff Michaels' hand moving for his sidearm. "No! Wait!" She grabs his elbow, praying that Gravity Falls' only policeman isn't the jumpy sort. "Don't shoot him! I'll get him to put the crossbow away! Just give me a minute!" And then she's out the door and stomping her way through the thick snow before he can do more than stutter out an objection.

The man on the porch squints behind his glasses at the approaching woman. "Carla?" The crossbow wavers and drifts to the side, but Stanford doesn't put it down.

"Yes, Ford. It's me," she says as she climbs the stairs and purposefully stands between him and the car, "You called. I came."

He shifts uneasily. "How do I know you're Carla?" he asks.

"Here we go again," the woman mutters before saying in a louder voice, "Stanford, we really don't have time for this. As of right now, there is a police officer with an itchy trigger finger on his service pistol in the car behind me, and you've already managed to convince the man that you should either be locked up somewhere or _dead_. Do you understand me? Don't answer that. It was rhetorical." Ford's mouth snaps shut. Carla continues. "I promise you can use that stupid flashlight on me later to check my eyes, if you really feel you need to; but, in the here and now, I need you to put the crossbow away and help me get the bags out of the cruiser so the nice policeman can be on his way. Preferably before the two of you try to turn each other into swiss cheese. Okay?"

Ford's eyes dart over the surrounding woods suspiciously. Failing to find... whatever it was he was afraid he'd find, he slowly lowers the weapon to his side. "O-okay. We should, we should hurry. Time's running short."

Carla gingerly takes the crossbow from him. It's no small amount of relief she feels when Ford makes no move to resist her actions. After plucking the bolt from its track and pulling the trigger to release the tension on the string (if only other kinds of tension were so easily dissolved) she ducks behind Stanford to stash both the weapon and its ammunition around the doorway.

"C'mon," she says, reaching out to take Ford's hand and leading him off the porch, "It may take a few trips to get everything out of the car."

Ford frowns faintly. "How much did you pack?"

"We were lucky on that account, actually. I just got back from a visit to Jersey about a week ago, and I hadn't gotten around to unpacking, yet. I never would have made it here in less than twelve hours, otherwise. But, no, most of it is groceries."

"Groceries?"

Carla ignores him and bends down in order to peer into the car she had clambered out of only moments before through its still open door. "Hey, Henry," she says, pasting on what she hopes is a reassuring smile, "Sorry about that. You good in here? The crossbow's put away now."

The policeman blinks at her. Slowly, very slowly, the man releases his hold on the firearm he didn't quite get around to drawing and resecures it in its holster. "Ma'am," Sheriff Michaels says in a low voice, "I feel the need to ask you, and I hope you'll consider your answer carefully, are you _sure_ you want me to leave you here?" His eyes shift to glance at the man behind her before he adds, "With him?"

Carla doesn't need to look to know that Ford has heard the other man. She can feel the way Stanford stiffens at the insinuation.

She lets her false smile slide off her face only to replace it with a determined, steely-eyed look that has never failed her. "Sir, I know he looks like a paranoid wreck right now; and, to put it bluntly, he is." Ford makes a small noise behind her. Carla squeezes his hand and hopes he'll stay quiet long enough for her to smooth things over. "But the one thing I trust him to always do is keep me safe, even when he can't be bothered to do the same for himself." The sheriff remains silent, wary. Carla decides to try one more tactic before the man can rule the situation too suspicious to leave alone. "Please. I know my brother. We'll be alright."

Sheriff Michaels hesitates, and then, "Fine." A sigh. "I'll trust that you're able to judge the circumstances better than I can. Let's get your stuff out of my car and into the house."

"Brother?" Ford questions in a loud whisper when Carla straightens back up.

"Close enough!" she hisses in return while the sheriff is busy climbing out of his police cruiser.

Further discussion is saved for after the policeman takes his leave.


	4. A Funny Thing Called Trust

Ford fiddles with the flashlight in his hands while Carla is busy exchanging farewells with the sheriff out on the porch.

He wishes he didn't have to check. He wishes he could simply trust. But he can't. He _needs_ to _know_. He's made too many mistakes -- been too reckless -- in the past. It will only be a quick test. Just to reassure himself. Ford looks down at the two suitcases, duffel bag, and a dozen or so grocery bags that surround him. He can almost convince himself that the test is unnecessary. Almost.

"Alright," Carla says, brushing the snow off of her outfit before crossing the threshold and closing the door behind her, "Henry's headed back to town. He'll be here again tomorrow, though."

Ford looks up at the announcement. "Why?" He turns the flashlight on and off rapidly a few times without thought.

"Well, hopefully, by that time Susan will have managed to find her emergency set of snow chains and gotten them on my car. Henry's volunteered to be her ride home." Carla eyes the device in his hands with a frown of distaste. "You're going to insist, aren't you?"

Ford fidgets. "It would make me feel better..."

The woman sighs and shrugs out of her coat, hanging it on a wall hook by the door. She stands in front of Ford, crosses her arms, and says, "Let's get this over with, then."

"Thank you." He means it, too. The fact that she doesn't try to argue with him, when he's certain that she sees his actions as nothing less than paranoid in the extreme, is a small relief in and of itself.

Ford manages to suppress his instinctive urge to flinch at the way the flashlight makes Carla's eyes glow a pale yellow color. _'You expected this. She never made a deal with him. She's safe. You're safe. Calm down.'_ Ford turns the light off.

Carla squints and blinks for a moment before giving in to the urge to rub her eyes. "Better now?"

He nods but soon realizes the failure in his logic. "Yes," he says, still twisting the flashlight in his hands, "And Jason?"

Carla allows herself a weary smile. "Safe with Susan and already busy terrorizing her cats. She'll be bringing him here along with the car, so we really need to get whatever the situation is with Stanley squared away quickly." The smile fades as she notices the man's continued absence. "Where is he, anyway? You said you found him. I assumed you meant he was here... ?" The 'with you' remains unsaid, but is no less clear for its lack of audibility.

"He, he is," Ford admits, finally putting the flashlight away in one of his coat pockets, "He's down in the basement, currently."

The woman's eyebrows rise and her hands settle on her hips. "The basement? You never let anyone down there."

"I..." he crosses his arms and hunches his shoulders, "I should be getting back to Stan. We only have --" Ford unfolds his arms again so that he can check the watch on his wrist, "-- likely less than half an hour to go."

Carla catches Ford's arm before he can make it to the basement door. "Ford, what's going on? You promised me answers when I got here."

"I, I know. I'm sorry, but it will be easier to, to _show_ you than to try to explain all of it," Ford shifts his weight from foot to foot, "Stanley and I will be up soon. Just... Trust me for a little while longer."

She frowns for a brief moment, but her expression soon smooths out. "I _do_ trust you," she says the words firmly. Ford can't help but feel that he doesn't deserve such steadfast faith. Carla continues, "And... _Thank you_ for calling me, Ford." He finds himself in the middle of a hug before he can quite process that it's happening. "I missed you."

He returns the hug automatically, if a bit clumsily. "I've missed you, too," the scientist admits. His fingers idly play with the brown curls behind her back for a few seconds before the action sparks his memory. "I nearly forgot," he says without letting go. He's not ready to break the contact just yet, even though he knows he should. The spell won't hold Stanley forever, after all. "Carla, I need a lock of your hair."

Carla pulls away enough to look at him, face blank. When her response comes, it is not so much an inquiry as it is a statement spoken in a tone that somehow seamlessly blends both exasperated disbelief and resigned acceptance together. "What."


	5. The Devil is in the Details

Ford takes the time to make sure he hasn't made any mistakes in the spell's setup. The curse is fairly straightforward -- He certainly hadn't been given the timeframe necessary to come up with something truly sophisticated, after all. -- but it wouldn't be impossible for him to make foolish errors in his current state. Considering that such mistakes could mean finding himself at the mercy of an enraged gargoyle, Ford is willing to take a few extra seconds to double -- and then triple -- check his work.

A small part of him wishes he'd allowed Carla to come down to the basement with him. She may not care much for magic -- and the zombie incident had likely cemented her opinion on the matter -- but she'd witnessed his use of it enough times to understand some of the basics despite her distaste. There's a chance she could spot something he might otherwise miss. However, the rest of him rejects the idea immediately. He's never told her about the possibly-world-ending portal, after all, and Stan's presence (silent and still though he currently is) would doubtlessly end up distracting her. Not to mention, there have been too many lab accidents down here already. He's not about to add Carla to the list if he can help it.

Satisfied with his chalk work and the placement of the spell's various elements, Ford takes a deep breath and attempts to center himself.

He hasn't been able to parse out most of the sigil's meaning yet, but he _has_ identified two symbols: "Guardian" and "Gate." Considering who designed the sigil in the first place, that particular pairing of magical characters is troubling to say the least. If Bill created a rune specifically to turn people into gargoyles hellbent on protecting the portal, and Stanley was successfully tethered -- chained, more like -- to the portal...

Well, that had been about the time he had decided that he would need to call Carla and started crafting a substitution spell from scratch. Leaving Stanley connected to the portal was out of the question, of course, but simply _breaking_ a gargoyle's tether was... inadvisable. (That was perhaps the least explained bit of information he'd gathered from the pair of pranksters, but also the only time he'd seen both of them become instantly serious over a topic of inquiry.)

He'll be the first to admit that tethering Stanley to Carla instead of the portal isn't ideal, but it's the best alternative Ford has been able to think up. Surely, it must be better than chaining him to the brother he'd been in the middle of a fistfight with before his transformation. Surely. ...He'll worry about the ethical ramifications of his solution some time when he's less stressed and better able to think. Maybe. Honestly, he'll likely have forgotten any such concerns long before such a time presents itself.

Stanford shakes his head. Now isn't the time to allow himself to get lost in his own mind chasing thoughts down proverbial rabbit holes.

Ford draws in one last deep breath and begins chanting. Slowly, one by one, the chalk circles and the characters written inside them start to glow. It's a lengthy spell, mostly due to the restricted vocabulary he's been forced to use in order to avoid any accidental tampering with the parts of Bill's curse that Ford hasn't translated yet. The last thing needed in this situation is to change things blindly, after all. Doing so would make it a nightmare to untangle the magics later.

Ford is about a word and a half away from finishing the chant when Stan wakes up and things happen in quick succession from there. His brother's eyes flare to life. Cracks start to appear through the stone. Ford manages to complete the last word of his spell even as a shudder races down his spine. The final circle drawn on the floor lights up. Stanley growls and pounces just as the runes all cease to emit light, making it obvious when the brightest things in the room -- Stan's eyes -- change from that hated yellow to white.

The next thing Stanford registers is the fact that he's been knocked over and is currently staring up at a pair of furious, glowing, blue eyes.

"Ford, what the hell was all that?" Stan growls.

Angry, but coherent. And definitely _Stan's_ normal temper and not _Bill's_ mindless pawn.

Ford slips into hysterical, relieved laughter.

"Uh..." Stanley stares at his brother with uncertainty, his rage giving way to concern in short order, "You didn't hit your head _that_ hard on the way down, didja?"

Ford only laughs louder.

"Stanford? C'mon, buddy, you're really startin' ta --" Stan cuts himself off. His whole body jerks backward slightly and he looks up at the ceiling as if he can see through it.

Ford's laughing comes to a quick and sudden death. Had he made a mistake? Was there a flaw in the spell he'd overlooked? Was --

"Carla." The name is said so quietly that Stanford almost doesn't hear it at all.

The next moment Ford is no longer being pinned to the floor by his brother but instead watching as the gargoyle bounds across the room toward the elevator.

Well then, maybe his spell has been a success after all.

Ford forces himself to get back up to his feet. He staggers over the control room in order to retrieve the Polar-Eyes camera off of the counter he'd left it on. He snaps a few pictures of the portal room's newly decorated floor and tucks them between the first few pages of journal one along with the other pictures he's taken over the last twenty-four hours. After that, journal and pen get put away in their respective pockets in Ford's coat. The camera continues to rest against Ford's chest from the strap hanging around his neck.

Stanford pauses when he gets to the elevator. Stanley's already gone, but the lift's cab is still waiting for him here on the lowest level. Ford presses four of his fingers against the new set of dents in the door and raises his eyebrows. Inside the cab, the emergency hatch is still swinging on its hinges from where they attach it to the ceiling.

"Stanley?" Ford calls up the shaft.

No answer. Had his twin actually made it up two floors and entered the main part of the house in such a short period of time? Gargoyles were excellent climbers, of course, but Ford had expected Stan to have more difficulties in adjusting to the changes in his body. ...On the other hand, he had also expected Stan to take the elevator like any sane human being would; so perhaps Ford was underestimating how seamless and natural the transformation felt from Stan's side of things, both physically and mentally.

There is no denying (not anymore, anyway) that Bill Cipher is a self-serving _monster_ , and insane besides; but Ford also can't deny the fact the evil being is _brilliant_ , and, on an intellectual level at least, Stanford cannot help but find the demon's work, in a word:

"Fascinating."

Ford reaches out and presses the button that will take him back up to the ground floor. Absently, he hopes that Stan didn't do anything to compromise the lift's integrity.


	6. In the Dark

"Shi-- _Shoot!_ " Carla swears when one of the last bags of groceries splits open and drops not one, but _two_ heavy cans on top of her right foot. Without thought, she drops both of the bags she'd been carrying and grabs her injured limb instead. The poorly muffled _crack!_ that follows helpfully reminds her that the eggs had been tucked into the bottom of the second bag. "Dangit." The woman pouts while she massages abused toes and glares at the scattered cans. Carla sighs and mutters, "Should've kept my shoes on."

The woman places her foot back on the ground and pushes away from the wall she'd been leaning against. As much as she'd like to sit and sulk over unjustly crushed digits, someone still needs to clean up the new mess in the middle of the floor. It's only right for that person to be the same one who made the mess to begin with. Carla spares a moment to hope whatever is happening in the basement is going more smoothly than her efforts to put away the groceries are. That's about the moment she glimpses a large form out of the corner of her eye just a split-second before it reaches her.

The woman finds herself trapped inside an inexplicable shroud of darkness before she has the time to so much as blink. In the next instant, still trying to adjust and make sense of the sudden lack of light, Carla is caught around the waist and pulled forward into a very large, very solid presence.

A startled squeak leaves her. The responding growl is something that she _feels_ as much as she hears.

Seconds tick by slowly and Carla begins to relax as she realizes that, despite everything, she doesn't feel particularly threatened. In fact, she's fairly certain that if she were in any real danger, something _more_ would have been done to her by this point. She can't see a thing, true, and the firm hold she's currently ensnared in makes it clear that she won't be going anywhere anytime soon, but that's it. She isn't being hurt. She isn't being dragged off somewhere against her will. She is, quite simply, being held. Period. Heck, both of her arms are still completely free, come to that.

Actually... Now that she has her initial panic under control... Well, it would be the most bizarre and unexpected hug she's ever received, but Carla is seriously starting to suspect that's exactly what's happening. Also, she's pretty sure that's a face pressed against her neck -- a decidedly familiar one at that, with a generous nose and square jaw and a distinct lack of glasses.

Carla swallows thickly. Her hands follow strong arms up to a pair of broad shoulders. "St-Stanley?"

The growl repeats, low and soft and somehow reminiscent of a cat's purr now that she's really listening to it. "Carla," Stanley replies, voice rough and breath ghosting over her skin, "Thought maybe you were hurt. I'm glad you're okay."

Something slips past her throat that might be a laugh, or a hiccup, or a sob. Carla isn't sure which.

Ley pulls away from her enough to see her face. "You're alright, aren't you?" he asks with a note of worry creeping into his voice.

"I'm fine," Carla insists.

She stares up into the two glowing, blue eyes looking back down at her. Last she checked, Stanley's eyes are brown, and, if you can believe this, they didn't shine through the dark like Christmas lights on snowy rooftops. But then, Ford had warned her about 'a Gravity Falls kind of something' having occurred. Still, she somehow hadn't quite taken that to mean, 'Stanley may or may not currently be human.'

She might find time to be annoyed with Stanford later; but, in this moment, Stanley has all of her attention for himself.

There are still a lot of things between them that need to be discussed (and she knows better than to think that she's escaped facing the height of Stanley's temper -- that, she has no doubt, is still coming) but Ley doesn't seem any more inclined than she is to get into all of that just yet, so Carla allows herself to be thoroughly distracted by the mystery in front of her. It isn't like Stanford is the only one with an overdeveloped sense of curiosity, after all.

Still unable to see anything beyond a pair of bright, shining eyes and the vaguest of shadowed forms only partially illuminated by the blue glow they emit, Carla's next action is all but inevitable.

She reaches out to _touch_.


	7. Creature Comforts

Fingertips brush sensitive skin and Stanley flinches away from the touch on instinct. "Carla, that tickles," he grumbles. He in no way expects the response he receives.

"That's _you_?" the woman asks, eyebrows raised and -- Uh oh, he knows that look. Carla's about two seconds away from slipping into nerd-mode if Stan doesn't find a way to stop her, and he's _really_ not sure what to make of the fact that it seems to be focused on him.

"Uh, yeah?" Stan stares down at her as his mind spins in useless circles. "Hey! No!" He shifts a bit further away when Carla's hand reaches out again. "'Tickles' is _not_ code for 'poke my back again.'"

"Your _back_?" Carla asks in the exact same tone she'd used earlier, but she obediently draws her hand away.

He's getting more than a little frustrated at this point. "Yes, my back! What else would --" Stanley cuts himself off, practically choking on his words, because in that second it dawns on him that Carla had been reaching off to the side and the logistics of that just don't _work_. "What the hell?" He squints at the large, gray _thing_ that doesn't like being prodded and tries to make heads or tails out of it. "What _is_ that?"

He can feel Carla's answering shrug. (He still hasn't let her go. He's fairly certain a crowbar will need to be put to use before his arms will be convinced to release her ever again.) "No idea," the woman says, "It would probably be easier to identify with some light, though."

"Carla, there's plenty of light." Except now he's not so sure because he's starting to clue in to the possibility that something may be very, very wrong. And probably with him.

In a calm voice that is terribly at odds with Stan's growing panic, Carla states, "I'm not really surprised _you_ think so, but I can't see a thing, Ley." After a moment's thought, during which Stan's level of dread only rises, she adds, "Well, besides your eyes, I mean. They're all glowy."

"My eyes are glowy," he repeats in the monotone that can only truly be achieved by someone whose mind has been rendered completely blank either by shock or panic. Or both.

"Mhm," Carla hums. "They've changed color, too; they're blue now. Ouch!" Carla smacks his shoulder and pulls Stan out of the mind-numbing void of terror he'd been slipping into. "Watch the --" Her eyes widen and her mouth forms a small 'o' before she snatches up one of his hands in her own and pulls it in front of her face. She squints at his hand for a few seconds before giving up and resorting to touch instead of trying to rely on sight.

Despite Carla's current difficulties in literally seeing past the end of her nose, Stan is having no such issues. It's too bad he doesn't like what it is he sees: gray skin and fingers that end in _claws_ , not short, flat fingernails like they should. He swallows and carefully fists the hand that's still at her hip. He doesn't want to chance hurting her again.

Carla makes a soft scoffing sound and mutters under her breath, but Stan hears every word with easy clarity. "Should have expected that. Large, night vision, probably predatory, of course he has claws. Doesn't really help narrow things down, though. Plenty of creatures like that, especially in Gravity Falls."

'Creature.' As in not human. Stan flinches at that part of Carla's analysis, not that she notices with how wrapped up she is in her mystery. Worse, though he's not sure how it's even possible for him to suddenly _not be human_ anymore, he's also pretty well convinced that she's right.

"C-Carla?" Stan tries, hating how his voice is starting to shake. A distracted hum answers him. "I know you're busy being in nerd-mode and all, but I'm seriously about to freak out and I could use some help avoiding that."

She blinks up at him and Stan tries his best to be patient. He can pinpoint the exact moment her brain finally makes the jump and Carla remembers there's a world outside of her latest curiosity.

"Oh! Stanley, I am _so_ sorry," she apologizes, "I didn't mean to --" She shakes her head and doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, she repeats, "I'm sorry." She cups his face in her hands and pushes up onto tiptoe, leaning forward and trusting him to keep her upright.

The kiss is little more than a cautious brushing of lips. It certainly doesn't have the usual enthusiasm behind it; but then, it's been four years and the last time they saw each other had been... Well, it's probably not realistic to expect everything to fall back into place so easily. (Stan stubbornly refuses to consider all the other reasons Carla might have to be cautious.)

One thumb slides back and forth over his cheek before she pulls away, releasing his face to wrap her arms around his neck instead. "Your _skin_ is rough," she mumbles into his ear; but she says it in the same way she used to complain about his morning breath before she'd kiss him anyway, so Stan thinks he can put off falling apart into little, terrified pieces for a while yet.

"Yeah?" Stanley notices his breathing starting to become too shallow and forces himself to take fuller breaths.

"Yeah." Carla presses her cheek to his and one of her hands begins to sift through the hair at the back of his neck.

The tension slowly drains out of him and he starts to feel like maybe the world isn't about to end after all; so, of course, something else has to happen.

Carla makes a small noise and pulls away. Stan keeps his eyes shut. He doesn't want to know.

"Ley," Carla tugs on one of his jacket's sleeves, "something just wrapped around my ankle."

Stan reluctantly opens his eyes and follows Carla's squinting, would-be line-of-sight down. "Oh, uh. Tail. That's a -- Pretty sure I've got a tail." He doesn't mention what he sees of his foot (Calling what is left of his boot 'scraps of fabric' may be too generous a phrasing.) or the unsettling angles his leg appears to be bending at. What's happened to him?

"Oh. Huh, okay then."

He's desperate for a distraction by now, and his mouth latches onto the first off-topic, not-at-all-related-to-him thing that crosses his mind. "Back to wearing fuzzy socks?" The very tip of the tail flicks back and forth once, as if it's mocking him.

Carla snorts. "It's winter, and this is Oregon," she says dryly, though not without some amusement in her voice, "Yes, I'm wearing fuzzy socks."

"I like the purple and pink stripes," he offers.

She rolls her eyes but smiles slightly. "Thank you." Carla's hands find his hair again, fingers combing it away from his face this time. "You need a haircut," she remarks as she continues playing with the too-long locks.

Stan huffs and rolls his own eyes. "I've got a mullet," he gripes, more than happy to take the chance to complain about something _normal_ , "Everyone with a mullet needs a haircut; I don't care who they are."

"I don't know. I think it's a good style for some people. And you need a haircut because it's _all_ long, and even in the dark I can tell you haven't been taking care of it."

"Heh, busted. But seriously, the mullet is, like, the single worst hairstyle concocted in the history of man."

Carla snorts. "You're forgetting that combovers exist," she states.

Stanley blinks and then states, "You're right. Mullets are the _second_ worst hairstyle concocted in the history of man."

"Pfft, you're just biased against them because you don't like the one you have," she dismisses.

"Correction, I'm biased against them because it takes a personal stylist, oodles of cash, and rockstar-level fame to pull a mullet off. And once you got those three things, you could run around in an empty potato sack for a week before anyone would point and laugh at you," Stan insists, "No one looks good with a mullet."

Carla's smile takes a turn for the mischievous and Stan knows that one of two things will happen next: Carla will either say something that he really likes, or she will say something that he really, really hates. "I bet _I_ could pull off a mullet."

"What? _No!_ No, no, no! I didn't hear that. I did _not_ hear that. In fact, you didn't ever say that!" he sputters, "All, all your pretty, perfect, long, curly, gorgeous hair butchered into, into, into a, a _mullet_ of all things! No! Just no. Nope. Nuh-uh. Bad idea. Seriously bad idea! I mean, a mullet! That's just -- Ugh, _no_. Never! Why would you even --"

Carla's laughing interrupts him. "Relax, Ley!" After she manages to beat her loud fit of guffaws down into tamer spats of giggling, the woman throws her arms around his neck and reassures him, "I'm not actually planning to cut it. I like my long hair, too."

"Oh." He lets that sink in for a moment. "Carla, that wasn't funny."

"No, that was hilarious! I wish I'd been able to see your face just now." He can feel her (no doubt unapologetic) grin against his neck.

Stanley grumbles unintelligibly and pretends to be a bit more annoyed with the whole discussion than he actually is. He rests his chin on Carla's shoulder even though it's a bit lower than would be ideal. He's missed this -- even if the crazy woman _has_ decided she needs to defend one of the world's most hideous fashions for whatever reason.

There is a long, stretching moment of peace before Carla speaks again, "Stanley."

The returning mischief in her voice causes him to tense slightly. He can feel one of her fingers tracing along the edge of his left ear, and, though he can't quite figure out what exactly it is, _something_ is off about the shape of it. Stan waits a few more seconds in wary silence, but then the quiet starts to get to him and he prompts, "Yeah?"

The tip of her nose brushes the shell of his other ear. "You have pointy ears," Carla whispers, "Like Vulcan-pointy ears."

"Oh." He absorbs that revelation slowly. Pointy ears aren't terribly disturbing, not when compared to claws, and tails, and the thing-that-still-hasn't-been-identified-but-doesn't-like-prodding.

"I bet they're sexier on you than they ever were on Spock."

A beat.

Two.

Stanley falls into helpless, frame-shaking laughter.


	8. Do You Believe in Magic?

Ford freezes in his tracks at the sudden eruption of laughter. Loud, deep -- perhaps slightly hysterical -- guffaws bounce off the walls of the house. It's been a long time since he's heard his brother lose it like this; though what happened to cause the laughter is something that he can't even begin to guess at.

He finds Stanley in the short hallway that leads from the front room to the kitchen. "Stan?"

The laughter cuts off abruptly and the gargoyle's whole form tenses. Stanford can't quite make out the softly murmured conversation taking place behind his brother's wings, but he spots the edge of a pink sock beyond the makeshift barrier. Ford blinks as he comes to the realization that not only has Stanley successfully located Carla -- and, honestly, that part isn't any surprise -- but somehow managed to practically cocoon the woman inside his wings. He hadn't known gargoyle wings were that flexible. He wonders if it's an odd quirk of anatomy that allows for it or if there is some low-level magic at work.

"What do _you_ want?" Stan finally growls. More whispers. "Ugh, I've just been told to mind my manners and apologize," he gripes, "But you know what, Ford? You don't deserve one, so I'm not gonna!"

"Stanley Pines!" Carla hisses.

"Well, he doesn't!" Stan insists.

Ford cuts in before the argument can spiral further, "I appreciate the thought, Carla, but I'm not sure a civil conversation between Stan and myself is likely to happen anytime soon; we do, however, need to talk about what's happened, and I'd prefer to do it face to face."

Stanley shifts his weight a bit, an almost sheepish action, and then, "Um... I'm, uh, not really sure how to do that. ...Any suggestions?"

Ford gapes for a second and then snaps his jaw shut. "Stanley, you just scaled two stories worth of elevator shaft without a ladder in seconds, and you're telling me you can't untangle your own wings?"

A pause. "I did what?" Another pause, longer this time. "...I have _wings_?"

Stanford is completely flabbergasted by this point. "Yes, Stan, you -- How can you not -- It just --" The scientist rakes a hand through his hair. "Sweet Moses, just give me a minute," he grumbles. The man considers the form in front of him for a moment before deciding on a course of action. Thankfully, Ford is fairly certain this is one problem that has a simple -- if not entirely elegant -- solution.

Stan squawks as Ford pushes a wingtip out of the way. "Hey! Watch it! That's sensitive!" his brother complains.

"I'm aware," he responds brusquely and jabs a finger between Stan's shoulder blades. Not one, but two squeaks result from his actions and Ford barely has time to get out of the way as a pair of large wings quickly retract.

"Oh," Carla groans after having been knocked over and catching herself on her elbows. She blinks up at the two brothers from her new spot on the floor. The woman suddenly grins and snaps her fingers. "Gargoyle!" she declares with no small amount of satisfaction.

Stanford feels his eyebrows climb a little higher on his forehead. "You didn't know?"

Carla shrugs. "I didn't get a good look until just now. By the way, I expect a better explanation than 'a Gravity Falls kind of something,' next time."

"I'm a _gargoyle_? Those _exist_?" Stan questions, disbelief coating his voice.

It is probably for the best that Carla answers him before Stanford can. "Yep!"

Stanley is clearly agitated. "And that's just, what, _normal_ around here?"

Carla shrugs, a smile still on her face. "Welcome to Gravity Falls. First time visitors, please be aware that 'normal' will be the least useful word in your vocabulary for the duration of your stay." She holds out a hand and Stan helps her to her feet without a second thought -- possibly without so much as a _first_ thought, come to that.

"She isn't wrong," Ford puts in, "I moved here specifically because of the high concentration of anomalies in the area. Transformation into another species is a first, however, so it may take me some time to figure out a way to reverse this."

Stan glares at him and Ford can tell they're headed straight for another fight. "What? Not gonna burn the other shoulder like you did the first one and see if that changes me back?"

Carla's eyes go wide. "You _burned_ your brother? Ford! You said he wasn't injured!"

"He's _not_! Gargoyles have an accelerated -- Right wingtip. It moved when he changed," Ford directs.

Carla glances up at him briefly and then returns her attention to her search.

"Hey! Hey! We've been over this! Sensitive!"

"Oh, man up, Ley, and let me have a look!"

"They have an accelerated healing ability during their sleep cycle," he continues over the other two's squabble, "It won't be anything more than scar tissue at this point."

"Ford..." the woman calls hesitantly from where she is crouched, one hand wrapped firmly around the edge of Stanley's wing as she examines the mark, "This isn't just a burn; it's a _brand_. What happened?"

Stanford hunches his shoulder and crosses his arms. "It was an accident. We... got into a fight. I didn't mean to push him onto the sigil," he confesses.

"Well, I think we all know the Pines family stance on _accidents_ ," Stanley says viciously, "And if you --"

"Stanley!" Carla snaps and then trains her gaze on Stanford with an uncomfortable intensity. "Ford, you said 'sigil.' Please tell me Ley isn't like this because you've been messing around with magic again."

The man flinches at her tone. "It's... leftover," he admits.

The woman obviously isn't happy, but she nods. "Is it stable?"

He rakes both of his hands through his hair this time. "As far as I can tell, yes," he states, "but I haven't translated more than a few runes yet, and it's possible that --"

"Hold up," Carla demands, "This isn't one of yours at all, is it?"

Stanford hesitates and then shakes his head.

Carla finally lets go of Stanley's wing and stands up again. "Ford," the woman says cautiously, "Who made the sigil?"

He takes a deep breath as if he's about to dive underwater. He's half-certain that Carla has already deduced the sigil creator's identity for herself; this is merely confirmation. He forces himself to say the name. "Bill."


	9. A Practical Application of Bossiness

Carla takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and nods just once. "I see," her eyes take on a critical glint as she looks the man up and down, "I probably should have asked this earlier, Stanford, but when was the last time you _slept_?"

The way the man shifts his weight from one foot to the other is reminiscent of a child that has been caught red-handed. His eyes dart from side to side nervously and his fingers twitch at his sides as he adds up the time. Carla's hands find her hips as she waits. Stan spends the time glowering at his brother in grumpy silence. "Maybe... Sixty-seven hours?" he offers eventually.

"Stanford Pines!" Carla's voice takes on _that particular tone_ \-- the one that seems to be universal to all mothers the world over: scandalized, but also exasperated and not truly surprised -- and causes both twins to wince like a pair of guilty five-year-olds, "Bed. Now." She points up the staircase leading to the second floor of the house. Ford takes one cowed, shuffling step in the indicated direction before Carla's eyes narrow. "Wait," she commands, stopping the scientist in his tracks.

Ford looks up warily as the woman marches toward him wearing an expression that would not have been out of place on a drill sergeant's face. The woman takes a moment to inspect him a second time. "When was the last time you _ate_?" She actually pokes his belly as she says the last word. Ford leans away and absently rubs the offended area with his palm. He opens his mouth to answer, but snaps it closed again when she adds, "Coffee doesn't count."

He frowns in thought for a minute before admitting, "I... don't know?"

A sigh. "Food and _then_ bed," Carla decides, "Table. Let's go." She makes a gentle shooing motion at him.

Ford nods and obediently redirects himself to the kitchen. He tries unsuccessfully to smother a yawn as he heads deeper into the house.

"Honestly, the man needs a babysitter," she mutters. Carla looks over her shoulder at Stanley and says, "I don't suppose _you_ 've been taking any better care of yourself, have you?"

Stan shifts from foot to foot, unaware of how closely he is echoing his brother. "I wouldn't mind a warm meal right now," he admits.

"Well, looks like you're in luck," she responds wryly, "'Early dinner' just got added to the day's menu." The woman picks up the grocery bag she'd dropped earlier and collects a few of the scattered cans, gingerly easing them into the bag. There are at least another five that she doesn't dare try stuffing in.

"I got 'em," Stan says as he quickly picks up the remaining cans left on the floor.

Carla flashes him a smile and presses a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."

Stanley spends a second simply being pleased with himself before hurrying to follow on Carla's heels as the woman leads the way to the kitchen.


	10. Danger Looms, So Does Stan

When Stan and Carla enter the kitchen, Ford is already dozing in a chair at the table. His temporary state of ease doesn't survive past Stan's right foot finding a particularly noisy floorboard. "Gah!" Ford startles awake, turning wide, fearful eyes first on them and then on the rest of his surroundings.

The gargoyle freezes where he stands and stares at his brother. He's still angry -- furious, really -- but Ford's behavior is concerning, and he can't help feeling at least a little worried over his twin. Even if the jerk _had_ asked him to come all the way to Oregon just to turn around and tell him to get lost.

"In here," Carla's voice pulls him back to reality. She opens the door to a cabinet and pushes a few coffee mugs and paper stacks out of the way on the counter beneath it. She sets down the bag she's been holding on the small space she's cleared and quickly transfers the cans from inside the bag to the open cabinet, adding them to the collection of canned goods already residing there.

"Right." Stan does his best to navigate his way through the small kitchen and avoid tripping. It's easier said than done with all the junk Ford has allowed to accumulate on the floor -- and with the extra bulk he's recently acquired. Tail, wings, the weird way his legs bend, and the large, strangely formed feet he's not so sure about, none of that is helping, either.

Carla slips past him and heads straight for his brother. "Ford? It's alright," she murmurs, soft and reassuring as she takes the camera from around his neck and places it on the table instead, "You're safe. Calm down."

"I don't... _feel_ safe," the man admits, voice equally quiet, "He's waiting. Every time I fall asleep, he's _there_ , and I --" Ford shudders.

Carla shushes him gently. "You found a way to keep him out," she reminds, running a hand over his hair, "You're _safe_."

"He knows I called you," the frazzled scientist warns, voice regretful and solemn. Stan doesn't like it. He's missing too many pieces to put everything together, but what he's hearing now sounds ominous enough on its own. "He knows you're here."

The woman huffs. "Good." That single word contains a fair amount of spite, but Stan's pretty sure it isn't aimed at his twin. "If he's busy bothering me, he can't spend that time harassing you."

Stanford makes a small, unhappy sound.

"Ford, you need sleep."

A short pause, and then, "I, I know."

Stanley's itching for a fight by this point. Whoever this guy is, he's obviously been messing with Ford _and_ Carla and that's more than enough reason for Stan to hunt him down and clean his clock, starting with a solid left hook that will hopefully knock out a few teeth.

Carla sighs. "I remember the rules. I'll be fine. You don't need to worry." Apparently, this is the end of their conversation -- one Stanley suddenly wonders if he was meant to hear at all -- because the woman raises her voice as she abruptly changes the subject. "Now then, it's been awhile since I read through the journal and I'm sure there's more you never got around to putting down on paper, anyway. What do I need to know about gargoyles, Ford?" She ducks around Stanley's large form in order to retrieve the bag she'd left on the counter and deposits it closer to the stove before pulling a pan out of another cabinet. She makes a face at the layer of dust collected in it but doesn't let it affect her voice as she heads to the sink next. "Let's start with diet."

And just like that, Stanford changes from the cagey, paranoid madman that shoved a crossbow in Stan's face to the nerdy twin brother he remembers growing up with. (When had he forgotten how much Ford loved to share knowledge? How the right question could send his twin on a happy, hours-long monologue that distracted him from whatever had been bothering him before?) Ford's spine straightens and his eyes take on a familiar light, if a bit hazy and out-of-focus from having avoided sleep for too many hours in a row.

"They're omnivores, like us. Perhaps leaning a bit more heavily toward the carnivorous side than we humans do, but Stan shouldn't have a problem digesting anything you usually make. If anything, he should have broader dietary options than he did before." Carla nods in understanding as she turns off the taps and skirts around Stan in order to get back to the stove with her newly cleaned pan. "They don't eat eggs, though," Ford adds when Carla removes the last item from the grocery bag.

Carla frowns down at the gooey-cornered carton and opens it over the trashcan. Three of the eggs on one end are cracked beyond saving and are leaking their sticky insides. Another five have hairline fractures on their shells but could still be used, leaving the remaining four at the other end of the carton as the only ones to survive the previous spill fully intact. "They need to be used," she says with a shrug. Carla plucks out the three useless eggs from the container and drops them in the trashcan. She grimaces slightly at the feeling of uncooked egg clinging to her hand. "I dropped them earlier."

Stan stops himself halfway from grabbing Carla's arm and his stomach twists in disgust. He's not really so hungry that licking the raw egg off her fingers had actually seemed like a tempting thought, is he? (He remembers once, around the time he'd started getting serious about boxing, downing a tall glass of half-a-dozen eggs over a bet with Ford. He'd won the bet, barely, but he'd sworn off ever doing a repeat performance.) Stanley wrinkles his nose. Surely he can at least wait until they're _cooked_.

Stanford shrugs. "There shouldn't be any harm in giving it a try," he says, crossing his arms on top of the table and failing to stifle another yawn, "Stan will probably find them repulsive in some way if they're actually dangerous to him. I have a theory that it's merely a cultural taboo, regardless. Gargoyles lay eggs."

Carla pauses and stares down at the eggs still in the carton. An uncomfortable expression flickers over her features as she takes in the information. "Oh," she says faintly. She continues in stronger, wry tone, "I can see why that might cause some issues." She shakes her head as if to drive the thoughts from her mind. "At any rate, I doubt Ley is planning on laying eggs anytime soon."

Stan snorts. "Definitely not," he mutters, also peering down at the eggs in Carla's hands from over her shoulder. It suddenly feels like he hasn't eaten in _weeks_.

Carla looks back and finds herself practically nose-to-nose with the gargoyle in question. "Stanley," she says, slightly irritated but also somewhat amused, "I don't mind you chiming in, but would you _please_ go sit at the table and stop hovering."

Stan hesitates but, after an awkward handful of seconds searching for an excuse to stay close and coming up empty, he obediently heads for the chair opposite Ford.


	11. Let Sleeping Gargoyles Lie

Stanley goes through several sitting positions -- all of which are apparently uncomfortable for some reason or other -- before settling in such a manner that he's perched on the very edge of the chair, so as to give his tail and wings room, and with one clawed hand clamped on the side of the table in order to avoid tipping over face-first.

"Alright, Poindexter," Carla's voice draws his attention away from watching the gargoyle attempting to use human furniture, "Food's not an issue, so what's next?"

Right. Right. He's supposed to be informing Carla -- and more importantly, even if they are at odds, _Stan_ \-- about gargoyles. He takes a moment to attempt to gather his thoughts and blinks when a plate of food is suddenly placed in front of him.

"I expect you to finish all of that," she says, already back at the stove and preparing another plate, "There should be enough for seconds if you don't feel queasy."

Ford looks back down at the plate and takes up the accompanying fork. It's a simple meal -- scrambled eggs with cheese melted over them and some pre-cooked, canned meat that he'd seen Carla throw into the pan as an afterthought -- and a small portion. Finishing it shouldn't be an issue. Probably. He really should remember to eat more regularly.

Stanford chews over a bite of eggs and his thoughts at the same time before speaking again. "Gargoyles have an unusual rest cycle," he announces after swallowing, "They don't really 'sleep' as much as they enter a state of immobility, reduced mental activity, and accelerated healing while retaining a semi-awareness of their surroundings and a limited consciousness. The gargoyle is protected by a layer of stone during the rest cycle."

Stanley looks up from his own plate. "Wait. _That's_ what that was?" he demands, spraying bits of meat over the table, "Felt like getting locked in a coffin. Or a car trunk." The gargoyle shudders theatrically.

Ford decides to ignore his brother's abominable table manners. He's too tired to start another argument -- especially over something that is ultimately trivial -- and he has no doubt that Carla will take Stan to task over the behavior if it persists. He'll accept the correction from Carla better than he would from Ford, anyway. "If you're referring to what happened in the basement, then yes. I used a spell to put you to sleep."

"Right. I am never sleeping again."

"Oh, no you don't!" Carla objects, putting a glass of water in front of each brother, "Ford has the quota for insomnia filled all by himself for the whole household, maybe the entire town. _You_ are sticking to a normal sleep schedule, Buster."

Stan grumbles something that might have been a 'Yes, Ma,' but Ford isn't certain.

"Stan won't need much sleep," he offers, "Three hours per day, twelve for three days, or roughly two days for a week." The cryptozoologist shrugs half-heartedly. "Gargoyle rest cycles are fairly flexible from what I've been told." Ford straightens up in his seat a bit and meets Carla's eyes. "They don't go to the Mindscape while sleeping, though."

"Oh. _Good_ ," Carla breathes, obviously relieved despite herself. The woman sets her own plate and glass on the table before finally claiming the remaining chair.

"Yes."

Stan frowns at both of them but says nothing. Ford supposes his twin simply doesn't like the fact that he doesn't have the needed context to understand everything being said in the conversation. It's not like that last bit had been particularly subtle, after all.

His train of thought is derailed a mere second later. Stanley reaches around the table (Absently, Ford notes how Stan uses both his tail and a wing as his counterbalance to the motion, seemingly by instinct alone and without any conscious realization.) and grabs the nearest support column in the backrest of Carla's seat. Stan proceeds to pull chair and occupant closer to himself. ~~And further away from Ford.~~ Carla giggles as she resettles and Stan wraps a wing around the back of her chair.

Stanford stabs another bite of eggs, cheese, and meat from his plate. He'd been expecting this, hadn't he? This had been the inevitable result -- or, no, actually, this was the best case scenario -- of inviting them both to his house at the same time. They were acting almost exactly like they had their last two years of high school. He doesn't recall their generally sappy interactions annoying him this much when they'd been teenagers, though.

"Ley, behave." Carla's gentle chiding is followed by the soft sound of ceramic sliding over wood.

Stan's response is a low, rumbling promise, "Never."

More giggling.

Ford takes a deep breath and pushes the uncomfortable feeling away. Now isn't the time.


	12. Freaked Out

"Gargoyles are naturally protective and have some limited capabilities in magic," Ford announces after a few minutes of silence on his part, "Adults of the species form a 'tether' to an object, location, or individual they regard as worthy."

Carla looks up at that, attention successfully diverted from Stanley and the cheesy flirting they had been engaged in. Something about what their resident expert has said sets off warning bells in her head. She can't quite pinpoint _why_ , though. "Tether?" she asks with a frown.

Ford glances at her, at Stanley, with something like guilt in his hazel eyes before returning his gaze to the plate in front of him. "Yes." His voice is carefully closed-off and Carla is suddenly very sure that she's not going to like whatever he says next. "A magical connection that compels a gargoyle to safeguard whatever is on the other side of the connection. Typically, it's something the gargoyle chooses for themselves, and something that can be changed at will if need be, but this isn't exactly a typical case. Right now, I'm working under the assumption that Bill designed the sigil to tether the resulting gargoyle to the -- to something extremely dangerous, so I used a spell to transfer the tether. ...To you."

Carla sits in dumbfounded silence and stares. Distantly, she is aware of the shifting gargoyle beside her.

"Carla?" Ley hesitantly trails his fingers over her arm before placing his hand on her shoulder.

She remains frozen as she tries to process what Ford just told her. Tethered. Compelled. _Enslaved._ Ford hadn't actually said the last, but he may as well have. She feels sick.

(Some part of her that isn't drowning in hysteria realizes that one side of the table is currently hosting an agitated, glaring gargoyle while the other side has a stressed, paranoid scientist, and -- unless she _wants_ to watch a scene out of a late-night, low-budget monster film play out in front of her -- she is going to need to do something about the rising tension between the two brothers.)

Carla forces herself to take a breath.

Hold it.

And release. "That's why you needed my hair." She's vaguely impressed that her voice doesn't quiver but instead remains eerily calm ~~like the still surface of a lake hiding nightmarish creatures in its depths~~.

Stanford's fork scrapes against his plate as he pushes the last few bites of his food around the ceramic. "Yes," he admits quietly. When he looks at her this time, his eyes hold an unspoken apology but Carla can't presently find it in herself to reassure him. She isn't even sure that she _should_. Ford hunches his shoulders and drops his gaze back to the tabletop.

Carla blinks as her ears begin to register the building growl on her other side. Right, of course. Stanley happens to be a very unhappy gargoyle at the moment.

Breathe.

Hold.

Release.

"Stanley..." she starts, but then realizes that she has no idea what she should even say. In the end, she decides not to say anything more. Instead, she places a hand over the one still resting on her shoulder.

Ley doesn't so much as glance her way, electing, instead, to continue glaring across the table at his twin. The gargoyle's voice is like stone grinding on stone, "He's upsetting you."

That's not what she had been expecting him to say, though maybe it should have been. At another time, under any other circumstances, she'd be flattered -- touched, even. She's always found it sweet how protective Stanley is of those he loves, but this is a complete perversion of that. Forced. She feels like crying. "I'm fine."

"You're _not_ ," he insists in an aggravated rumble, "I can --" He blinks and cocks his head the side before shaking it. He gives a frustrated huff and returns to his glaring. "Okay, _that's_ weird," Ley states, tone still gruff but no longer holding the dangerous growl it had mere seconds ago, "I can feel your emotions and they're all... _turbulent_. You're not 'fine.'"

"I _will_ be fine," Carla corrects herself.

Stanley allows another harsh growl to escape him. "The nerd's wrong, anyway. I'm not being _compelled_ to do anything." Ley surprises her by abandoning his chair and pulling her half out of her own. The gentler, purr-like growl from earlier returns as he nuzzles the side of her neck. "I won't lie," the words are a soft murmur close to her ear, "This is stranger than anything I saw in Columbia -- Don't ask. -- and I'll probably freak out over the whole thing at some point, once I actually stop to think about it, but I don't need some magic 'tether'-thingy to tell me that I've missed you. I've known that for _years_. Promise. It's not messin' with my head. You don't need to get all twisted up and guilty over this."

Carla releases a shuddering sigh and pulls away enough to see Stanley's face. "I wish I could believe that," she whispers back, "You should be furious with me. I _expected_ you to be furious with me, after the way I left."

"I don't blame you for that. It was all that stupid hippie's fault!" Stanley insists, "He tricked you! You wouldn't --"

Carla sighs again and pulls away completely. "Thistle doesn't deserve your ire, Ley. He doesn't have much to do with any of it, actually. I can't blame other people for my decisions."

"But --"

"Later. Please?"

The gargoyle frowns, obviously far from happy, but nods once in agreement. "Soon, though."

"Soon," she assures him with a weak smile. Carla turns her attention back to Ford, who has dutifully cleaned his plate and is now busy being a silent, miserable lump seated across the table from her and Ley. "Why me?"

Stanford startles and looks up from the woodgrain of the furniture. His brow furrows as he thinks, and, cautiously, he asks, "The tether?"

"Yes. Why me?" She needs answers.

Ford gives a small shrug. "As I said, Bill had him tethered to something dangerous. I'm not certain how he managed that, actually. Regardless, I couldn't leave it be, however a tether can't be established and anchored to any arbitrary object. It needed to be something of importance, specifically of importance _to Stan_ , or it wouldn't hold. The Stanleymobile might have worked, providing Stan still has it --"

"I do."

"-- and if I could have found it in time. Beyond that, there wasn't anything here I could use to transfer the tether to."

"What about you?" Stanford's flat stare is distinctly unimpressed. The woman closes her eyes and rubs her temples. "No, you're right. That's a terrible idea. I'm not so sure that _this_ ," she waves a hand to indicate Stanley and herself, "is much better, but that definitely wouldn't have gone well."

"Considering I've been itching to feed Ford's ugly mug a knuckle sandwich since this afternoon?" Stanley cuts in, "Probably not."

"Yesterday afternoon," his twin corrects, gaze sliding off to the side as both Carla and Stanley stare at him but he still continues, "The spell I used put you to sleep for roughly twenty-four hours. Today is the --" Ford frowns, and then, "Carla, what's the current date?"

"Oh my God, _Stanford_ , are you serious?" the woman buries her face in her hands for a brief moment before removing them and stating, "Today is the twenty-third. Of February. And now you are going to bed so that you don't wind up having a heart-attack and getting that date stamped on your _death certificate_. My latest crisis of conscience can wait."


	13. Insecure

"I'm not ninety-two, yet," Ford mumbles under his breath -- and Stan has absolutely no idea what _that_ is about -- but pushes himself to his feet. He proceeds to sway unsteadily, one hand coming up to hold his head. "M'alright," he insists even as Carla abandons her own seat and tucks herself against his side in order to help support his weight, "Jus' stood up too fast."

The woman rolls her eyes. "Neither of us believes that one. You haven't slept in three days, who knows when you last ate before now, and this is probably the first time in _weeks_ that you've let yourself relax at all from a state of hypervigilance and paranoia. You're crashing, and crashing hard, Ford. We'll be lucky if you don't fall asleep mid-stride on our way to the bed."

On some level, Stan is still listening to Carla and Ford talk, but, honestly, he's too distracted by the change in the woman's emotions to register what it is they're saying, the words stripped down to meaningless -- if comfortingly familiar -- background noise. All that stress and guilt and fear he'd felt from Carla just a few seconds ago is suddenly, well, not _gone_ but muffled under something else for the time being. If he had to guess, he'd say it's determination. Funny enough, but he can't actually feel that one coming from her.

Ford frowns down at her. "I's no'tha bad," he grumbles.

"You're already slurring your words, your eyes are drooping, and your equilibrium is shot. Should I keep going?" she challenges.

Ford opens and closes his mouth a few times before insisting, "I don'need help." The scientist manages to liberate himself from her hold and then performs a far more impressive act when he succeeds in remaining on his feet.

Stan frankly doesn't know how he didn't notice this 'tether' thing earlier. It seems like something that should have been pretty obvious, and (now that he's paying attention) he gets the feeling that it goes a lot farther than some secondhand emotions. (He's not sure in what way, exactly, but he's definitely picking up on _something_ more.) But then again, considering everything else he's dealing with right now, should he really be surprised he hadn't realized that the tether existed sooner? It's not like he'd known to look for it. Granted, earlier he had been about two seconds away from leaping over the table and beating Ford into a bloody pulp for upsetting Carla, but it's not like he hasn't pulled similar stunts for similar reasons in the past. It's just that rage hadn't ever been directed at Stanford before today. Or yesterday, if he included the fight that started this mess. Whatever.

Carla sighs. "Fine," she relents, "Off with you, then." Stanford's defiance wavers noticeably in response to her words and he hesitates. Carla's expression softens and she catches his hand, "Go on. I'll be up soon." Ford relaxes with the reassurance.

The man nods in acceptance before slowly shuffling out of the room.

So, is this whole tether deal something he actually needs to be concerned about? Carla definitely believes it is, but Stan isn't quite convinced. Even if the tether 'compels' him to protect Carla, well, that's just par for the course, isn't it? Hell, they'd met because he'd decked that two-bit creep who'd been trying to steal her purse. As far as Stan can tell, nothing he's feeling now is much different from how he'd felt before he ever came to Oregon. A few things might have gotten cranked up to eleven, sure, but he can't find anything in his way of thinking that's actually _changed_. Well, other than his short-lived hope of rebuilding the bridges he'd burned with his twin over a decade ago.

"We'll give him five minutes to stumble his way through the house," Carla decides, then places a hand over her mouth to smother a yawn of her own. The woman frowns as she turns her attention to the suspiciously still gargoyle staring past her and beyond the walls of the kitchen. "Ley? Are you okay?"

Still, he came here to mend a broken relationship. Just because _Ford_ is being stubborn and clinging to old grudges, doesn't mean he can't still do that. After all, Carla is here too, and _she_ actually seems open to giving things between them another shot. Or, at least, she _had_ before his brother opened his big mouth and spooked her. He can still salvage the situation, though. He knows he can. He only needs a chance to do so. Just one! ~~He can't go back to being all alone again. He just can't.~~

"Stanley?" Carla carefully places her hands on his shoulders.

Stan jumps at the touch, unceremoniously wrenched from his thoughts. "Huh?" he blinks down at the woman in front of him, "Sorry. Didja say somethin'?"

Carla's brow furrows in concern. "I asked if you were okay."

"Yeah! Yeah, I'm fine," Stan hurries to assure her. He can tell she doesn't believe him, though. Carla's always been open with her emotions, easy to read, but Stan's finding it's a lot harder to brush off the obvious worry (and guilt) when he can literally feel the way it's bubbling up inside her. It draws a confession from him before he can think twice, "Just... Got a little lost in my own head for a bit, there."

The woman nods slowly and breaks eye contact, releasing him in order to wrap her arms around herself. "There's a lot to think about," she agrees.

Stanley frowns. "Hey. Didn't I just tell you that I'm okay?" He catches her around the waist and pulls her closer before using one hand to tip her chin up. He finds himself staring into a pair of miserable, blue eyes. "Shit. This is really eatin' you up, isn't it?"

Carla's gaze drops again. She shrugs but says nothing.

The gargoyle sighs loudly and tries again. "Okay, let me make sure I got this right," he starts, "You're upset 'cause ya think this tether-thing might be messin' with my head. That about right?" A nod. "And you're probably not too happy that me an' Ford are fighting." Another nod, this time with a small, frustrated scowl haunting the corners of her lips. "So, basically, because I'm mad at Ford and not at you, something's gotta be controlling my thoughts? Carla, that's stupid."

"It's not just that," she argues, but she still won't look at him, "It wasn't until we hit _Kansas_ that it finally dawned on me what set you off so badly when I told you I was leaving. And then it was a complete nightmare trying to find a working phone. You wouldn't believe how many establishments flat out refuse to provide any kind of service if you look like a hippie." Carla pushes a hand through her bangs. "It probably didn't help that I must've _reeked_ of weed, and I think I was on a near-permanent contact high while I was traveling with them. And then, when I finally got my hands on a phone to call you, there's someone _else_ living in our apartment. I have no idea how sold it so quickly, but it _can't_ have been legal considering the lease."

Carla stops to take a breath and Stan takes the opportunity to interject, "Carla, Baby, you're rambling."

Her cheeks puff out before Carla slowly releases the air. "Right. Sorry. Long story short?" She glances up at him and Stan just nods to encourage her. "Ford was acting out of sorts for months, and then he wasn't answering his phone _at all_ , and then Thistle offered me a ride so I jumped at the chance to check on him. Except then, of course, I completely failed at explaining any of it to you."

"When you left, you mentioned you were going to Oregon. For some sorta hippie festival," Stan recalls slowly. His stomach feels like lead.

The woman licks her lips before answering, "The Woodstick Festival. It's been held annually for eleven years, now. They hold it right outside of town, actually." A shaky laugh escapes her. "I couldn't believe my luck when Thistle told me."

"So you never really meant to..."

"No," she answers the question he can't seem to choke out, "Stanley, I am _so_ sorry. I swear, I only meant to be away for a week or two. I just needed to make sure Ford hadn't gotten himself killed. After that, well, the plan was pretty fluid after that."

"Oh." Four years. He's been all alone for _four years_ over some stupid misunderstanding. His whole life torn apart over a dumb argument he'd do anything to erase. Again. His life's just one big cosmic joke, isn't it? "And Ford?" he croaks out, "I mean, obviously he's not dead, but..."

Carla sighs and gestures to the doorway his brother had disappeared through earlier. "You saw him. I thought he was getting better for a while, but now..." Another sigh. Under her breath, the woman mutters, "I never should have let him talk me into leaving him alone. I _knew_ it was a bad idea."

Stanley is only vaguely aware of the agitated growl that leaves him as he demands, "This have anything to do with that Bill character that keeps coming up?"

"Yes." Carla scrubs her face with her hands. "God, I just realized how much you need to be caught up on." She untangles herself from his arms only to catch his hand and pull him along behind her. "Come on, Ford's either made it to the bedroom by now or he's slumped over somewhere else and needs to be dragged to bed."

"This a usual thing, then?" he hazards.

"It hasn't been for the past two years or so, but it looks like we're back at square one. So, the short answer is 'yes,'" Carla says, turning a corner and beginning to ascend the staircase now in front of them, "Thanks to Bill."

"Uh-huh," Stan grumbles, awkwardly trying to work out how to place his feet, "Who _is_ this Bill guy, anyways?"

"That's... complicated," Carla hesitates and turns around to face Stan as he continues to struggle with the stairs, "Bill isn't human, he's... something _else_. Ford calls him a 'dream demon.' Or sometimes he'll refer to Bill as a 'muse.' Regardless of the semantics, though, he's solely responsible for turning Stanford into a mental wreck."

Stan's managed to awkwardly fight his way up all of three steps by this point. It's a painfully slow process. He blames his newly acquired tail and wings. The extra weight on his back forces him to lean forward further than he's comfortable with in order to find his balance, and then they move and he has to readjust again to keep from falling over. He might feel a bit better if he could actually see his feet, but that's not a possibility at the moment -- not if he wants to avoid bashing his head against the stairs.

He stills his flailing when a hand settles on his cheek and a pair of soft lips press against his forehead. Stanley leans into the affections without thought and has to use both hands to catch himself before he falls flat on his face. Carla puts enough distance between them so that they can see eye-to-eye but doesn't remove her hand. He blinks at her and gets a wry smile in return.

"You're moving fine until you stop and try to figure out how to do something, you know. Stop making things difficult for yourself. Ignore your feet, trust your body, and follow me." Carla's smile stretches wider and her voice takes on a teasing lilt as she adds, "Leave the overthinking to Poindexter, Knucklehead." She gives him another short kiss and then pulls herself upright by the handrail she'd been clinging to so as to avoid falling down the stairs herself. She proceeds to back up the steps and Stanley follows closely in her wake. (He ends up in more of a crawl than a walk -- and that's embarrassing -- but he's not fighting a losing war against gravity any longer, either.)

Carla picks up her explanation, "Anyway, the short version of events is that Ford thought Bill was a friend, but Bill turned out to be a real creep who was using Ford to... Actually, I've never gotten that part of the story out of Stanford. I know he's ashamed of whatever Bill was using him for, but he won't _talk to me_ about it." The woman frowns and there's a flare of worry-anxiety-fear through the tether before the emotions are pushed aside. "Regardless, it shattered Ford's trust in nearly everyone -- and every _thing_ , for that matter. It hasn't helped that Bill apparently decided to stick around and torment Ford even after being found out. As awful as it sounds, I wish I thought he was doing it just to be spiteful and petty, but I'm almost positive he's still trying to push Ford into doing something for him. I'm just not sure what that something _is_."

She stops in front of an open doorway and it's only then that Stan realizes they've left that blasted staircase several feet behind them. ...And he's still down on all fours. Nope. Not happening. He doesn't care how ~~comfortable~~ convenient it is. He's a man, and he's not going to crawl around like a damned toddler. (But he'll probably continue to make an exception for those stupid stairs.)

Carla catches his shoulders as soon as he stands up. "Listen, Ley, this is _important_."

Stan shifts under her hold, warily taking in the stern expression and the determination in her eyes. "Alright," he says slowly, "Go ahead."

She draws a breath and then, "I realize you and Ford are fighting, and I don't know if it's still over his science fair project or something new, but that doesn't matter." Stan opens his mouth to argue but Carla presses on. "No, Ley, it really doesn't matter. Not right now." The gargoyle bites his tongue (and then swallows a yelp as he discovers how much sharper his teeth have gotten) and tries to focus on listening to what is being said. "It doesn't even matter whether or not he's forgiven you, yet. Because for you to be here now means that he still _trusts_ you, and that's a _lot_ more important at the moment than any grudge he's holding against you. Ford's trust is... fragile. I don't doubt that he'll forgive you eventually, but _only_ if he keeps _trusting_ you."

"You make it sound like I need him to forgive me," Stan snaps defensively.

A sound like a half-aborted, frustrated groan escapes the woman in front of him. "Ley, don't pretend you haven't missed your brother. We both know you have." Carla releases his shoulders and instead cups his face in her hands. "I know it was an accident. I think Ford's gotten to the point where he's willing to admit that it was at least _probably_ an accident; but he's still the most stubborn person I know, and the best way get rid of a grudge is with forgiveness. For God's sake, Ley, when Ford finally allows himself to forgive you, whether you feel like you need it or not, please, just accept it. Don't throw it back in his face."

"Fine," he growls. He crosses his arms over his chest and he can feel his wings pull in tighter against his back. His tail wraps itself around one of his own ankles, and with all of that extra weight shifted so much closer to his center, Stan finds he needs to straighten up unless he wants to tip over. (All of this means he's standing _inches_ taller than he was just a few seconds ago and is now practically _towering_ over Carla. ~~And he's not regretting how the readjustment cost him the feeling of her soft palms against his cheeks. He's not.~~ )

Carla frowns, arms falling to her sides. For a moment, he's sure she's going to try to keep arguing even though he's already (begrudgingly) agreed to her demand, but then she shakes her head and instead offers him a weary smile. "Thank you."

He isn't entirely sure what to make of the sudden shift but he manages a hesitant reply of, "You're welcome?"

Carla's smile grows a tad warmer before her expression becomes troubled again. "I'm serious about this, Stanley," she warns as the worried furrow between her eyebrows deepens, "Whatever you do, don't _lie_ to your brother. If he asks a question that isn't any of his business or you just don't want to answer, then damn well _tell him_ that! Whatever else you do, no matter how much you think it will upset him, don't try to cover it up or hide it. You need to be brutally, painfully _honest_ with Ford right now or there's a good chance you'll break what trust he has in you, and I don't think you'll get another chance to patch things up after this one."

Stan swallows thickly and turns his gaze away from the beseeching baby-blues he's always been weak to. He keeps one arm wrapped around his torso but lets the other fall to catch one of Carla's wrists in a loose grasp. "Doesn't seem like Ford's interested in 'patching things up.' He asked me to come, but then he just turned around and told me to leave again. Wasn't even _me_ he really wanted in the first place, just someone to take his dumb book for him."

"He wanted to give you one of his journals?" Carla asks, sounding shocked and excited and pleased for reasons Stan can't understand. (And why can't he feel any of _those_ emotions? Stupid tether seems to only pick up on the bad ones.)

Stan looks back at his smaller companion. "Yes?" he answers in confusion. Carla squeals and throws herself at him, catching him around the neck. "Woah!" he protests as he stumbles back. He regains his balance after a few tenuous moments where he was sure they were going down. "Uh, Carla? Not that I'm complaining," Stan begins, gradually allowing himself to settle into the embrace and get comfortable, "but... what brought this on?"

"Ford trusted you with one of his journals!" she repeats, as if that explains anything. She continues without prompting, "This is great! Huge! I was here for _months_ before he let me start reading through them!"

"O-oh... So, they're, like, really important, then?"

"Yes!" Carla looks up at him with bright, shining eyes. "He's spent _years_ working on them. They're not just research -- whatever Ford might try to say. They're like a cross between a field journal and a _personal_ journal. If Ford really wanted to give you one of his journals -- That's just, just _incredible_! I can't believe -- Stanley? What's wrong? You've got this look on your face. Oh, God, what did you _do_?"

He doesn't want to answer that question. He really, really doesn't. Unfortunately, he knows from firsthand experience that Carla will forgive him for pretty much anything else faster than she will for lying. ~~He's had plenty of opportunities over the years to learn and relearn that particular lesson.~~ Stan swallows down his first response -- namely, to disavow any wrongdoing -- and instead forces a confession past his tongue.

"I, uh, kinda tried to burn it," he whispers. Carla stares at him in horrified silence and Stan finds himself rambling, "and then we ended up in a fistfight. Ford kicked me into something hot and I guess that's about when I... got turned into... a gargoyle." Damn, but that's just going to keep being a weird thought. "It, uh, gets a bit fuzzy after that." Nothing. Just keeps staring at him. "...Carla?"

The woman closes her eyes. "Oh," she groans as she lets her head fall to rest on his chest, "Ley..."

"Sorry," he offers with a wince.

Carla sighs, and without lifting her head asks, "I'm not going to be able to leave you two alone in the same room, am I?"

"Sorry," he offers again.

Carla's arms tighten around his neck before she releases him and steps back. "We'll figure something out." Stan thinks she says it more to reassure herself than him. "Come on. We still need to make sure Ford made it to bed in one piece."


	14. Neurotic

Seeing his twin haphazardly sprawled face-down on the bed -- obviously Ford had decided that just _getting_ to said bed had been more than enough effort expended already and it was only fair to let gravity do the rest of the work -- isn't something Stan can say surprises him. He is a little surprised, however, that Stanford remembered to at least toe-off his shoes, his still-socked feet hanging carelessly over the side of the mattress. ~~That's more than he recalls Ford usually managing the day after pulling an all-nighter over whatever nerdy thing had most recently piqued his interest.~~

Carla huffs before moving forward, leaving Stanley alone in the doorway. Under her breath, the woman mutters, "Ought to just be thankful he didn't strangle himself in his sleep while I was gone." She places a hand on the man's back upon reaching the bed. "Ford?"

"M'not as'eep," comes the muffled response.

"That's good, because you still need to take off your coat, Ford." The scientist groans but obediently struggles out of the offending piece of clothing, allowing Carla to take it away and drape it over the footboard. It's only the first in an entire list of items that have apparently been deemed unsuitable for sleeping in. Carla gently bullies Ford into also relinquishing his glasses, tie, watch, and belt before putting them away for him.

Stan watches as the two go through what is obviously a well-established routine. Ford fumbles with undoing the first few buttons of his shirt and that seems to be the last step needed to finally satisfy Carla's nagging. Stan can't help being a little impressed by the whole process. ~~The most he'd ever managed was Ford's glasses before lazy hands would swat him away.~~

Carla smothers a yawn with a hand over her mouth. She stands still for a moment and then mumbles, "S'not worth it tonight."

Stan can't even begin to guess at what isn't 'worth it,' but he doesn't spend long wondering as that, and every other thought, is driven from his mind by what he witnesses next.

Carla allows herself to collapse onto the bed in front of her. Ford grunts as the mattress under him bucks but he doesn't hesitate to wrap an arm around Carla and pull her close. The following two seconds sees the two arranged comfortably with Ford spooned around Carla so tightly he's practically glued to her back.

"Goo'nigh, Ho'pan's," Ford slurs, face pressed against the back of her neck.

Carla yawns again. "G'night, Poindexter," she returns, but the man has finally allowed himself to drift off completely and doesn't hear her.

How DARE that two-faced, self-righteous BASTARD cuddle up with his Carla! And right in front of him! Just who does Ford think he is to be holding her like that? More to the point, why is Carla _letting_ him? Carla is HIS wi--

Stanley chokes over simply thinking the word, his breath freezing in his lungs. They _had_ been married. ~~Some cheap ceremony in Vegas that both of them had been too drunk to remember the day after, but still.~~ She _had_ been his wife. ~~Until she'd left him.~~ It's been such a long time since that has been his reality. ~~He's spent the last handful of years shying away from the whole thought because it _hurt_.~~ What are they now? ~~She's been welcoming and loving and encouraging, but Carla would be that person for anyone she knew was having a bad day.~~ Estranged? ~~She'd said she'd meant to come back to him when she'd first left, but did she _still_ mean to?~~ Exes?

Stan slinks around the bed, only realizing halfway through the action that he is once again moving around on all fours. (Whatever. He has something more important to focus on right now.) The gargoyle crouches at the edge of the bed closest to the woman's face. "Carla," he hisses, "What the hell is this!"

Carla sighs and reluctantly opens her eyes. "What is _what_ , Stanley?" she asks.

" _This!_ " he growls, gesturing with one flailing hand.

The woman groans quietly, clearly frustrated. "Look, it's practical," she insists, "I told you Bill wasn't human, right? That Ford calls him a dream demon? Bill doesn't exist _here_. He exists someplace called the 'Mindscape,' which is a collection of, of, like -- little, personalized bubble-dimensions that people go to when they sleep." Carla closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose at Stan's skeptical look. She takes a deep breath and tries again, "...Okay, I know that sounded ridiculous, but a better explanation would mean a lot of 'nerd-babble' that I'm too tired to get into and you wouldn't want to listen to anyway. The point is, Ford's gone to sleep and the likelihood of Bill _not_ tormenting him with some twisted, horrific nightmare before sunrise is slim to none.

"So, I _could_ go to the trouble of clearing off the couch downstairs, crash there for a few hours until Ford inevitably wakes up screaming, and then stumble my way through the house in a mad dash to make sure Bill's mind games haven't driven Stanford to do something drastic. _Or_ , I could save myself a lot of hassle by being the world's greatest teddy bear, and maybe even coax Ford into sleeping a few extra hours if I can get him to calm down before he actually wakes up."

Stan continues staring at Carla in disbelief for a few more seconds, but it seems the woman's explanation is finished. "You're kidding, right?" he demands.

Carla huffs and rolls her eyes. "Ley, I know you've had a really weird couple of days, and you've got to be reaching your limit, so I realize it's asking a lot for you to accept that Bill is not only _real_ , but _dangerous_. -- And, honestly, Bill is something you should probably ask _Ford_ about sometime. -- But! For now," Carla reaches out and catches his face between her hands, "I've had a long day and I need sleep. Can we _please_ pick this discussion back up later?"

Stanley scowls at the oblivious, snoring figure behind her. "I don't like it."

"You don't need to." Stan recoils and Carla sighs. "Don't look at me like that. You're being ridiculous. You've been dropped into a long-standing situation you know nothing about and you're already trying to make demands. We can argue tomorrow about how inappropriate it is or isn't for me to sleep with your brother."

"Well, I definitely don't like the sound of _that_ ," he growls.

"Don't even start," she snaps. "Look, just, find a way to occupy yourself for the next eight hours, okay?" She reaches toward the footboard and manages to grasp the edge of Ford's coat before yanking it onto the mattress. "Here," the woman says as she pulls the journal that's responsible for turning his world on its head -- and he's still not sure how he feels about where it's landed him -- from inside the coat before glancing at the book's cover, humming in approval, and holding it out to him, "Try reading some of this. Even if you aren't ready to believe in everything that's written in it -- yet -- it's still interesting to skim through. I think this is even the one that has the pages on gargoyles in it. Somewhere in the first half, toward the middle. Oh, and don't touch anything that looks strange if you decide to explore the house. The bedroom is _probably_ safe, but Ford's still terrible about leaving abandoned projects lying around."

Stan looks down at the leather-bound journal in his hands with a frown. "Alright, fine," he decides before focusing all of his attention on her once more, "I just need to know one thing. You and me, what are we now?" He isn't prepared for the emotional flood that comes from the other side of the tether -- practically drowns in it -- but it recedes almost as soon as it comes, leaving a deep-seated ache in its place. The event leaves Stan feeling winded and disoriented.

Carla's breathing hitches noticeably. "We're..." she bites her lip, hesitates, and then says, "Honestly, we're a mess, and not one that I'm ready to try dealing with tonight. Just -- _Tomorrow_. Okay?" Carla's hand finds one of Stan's own, still clenched around the journal, and her thumb slides back and forth over his wrist.

Stan swallows. "Yeah. Yeah, okay," he agrees, still trying to process everything he'd just felt. It's no use. It was there and then gone again too quickly to pick out anything specific, just that it was _all bad_ and all because of _him_.

The woman releases a shaky breath. "I'll see you when I wake up," she promises -- though whether she says it to reassure Stanley or herself is debatable -- and whispers, "G'night, Knucklehead."

He blinks down at her. It's been a long time since he'd last heard those words. The gargoyle manages to give a smile that's only half-fake. "G'night, Hotpants."


	15. Emotional

Stan stays crouched by the bed until Carla falls asleep, and then continues to remain where he is for several uncounted minutes more. The tether had quieted as she'd drifted off and left him more or less alone in his own head. It's not as much of a relief as one would think. Mostly because without the distracting ebb and flow of Carla's emotions, he's being confronted with his own. They're not something he wants to deal with. They're not even something he's sure he knows _how_ to deal with. Particularly not the thought that finding _Carla_ again may not mean finding his _wife_.

The gargoyle groans and buries his face in the corner of the bed. This has not been the reunion he'd had in mind when he'd been driving north.

Once upon a time, he'd known his twin better than he'd known himself. ~~Or, at least, he'd thought he had.~~ And he likes to think he'd known Carla pretty damn well, too. (Misunderstanding over that dumb hippie aside.) But now? Now, Ford and Carla are... Well, not _strangers_. They're still too familiar to be strangers, but they've definitely changed. ~~He doesn't know why he'd expected otherwise. It's been years since he's seen both of them. Of course they've changed.~~ He's not even sure where he stands with either of them.

Ford had wanted him to leave almost as soon as he'd arrived, but it looks like that stopped being the plan after their fight and its weird as hell consequences. Then Carla had shown up from who knows where (Stan's fairly certain she hadn't been in the house when he'd first arrived, and she said she'd been gone for a while, hadn't she?) and at first it's hugs and kisses and flirting like the pair of dumb kids they used to be but that had come to an end too soon. Next thing he knows, she's withdrawing all that easy affection only to turn around and crawl into bed with his own brother. (And it better just be literally and not _figuratively_ as well, or else he's going to have to rip Ford's fucking head clear off his damned shoulders before dismembering his backstabbing corpse and then setting the whole bloody mess on fi-- ...Okay, that train of thought got gruesome fast. Either the tether actually _is_ messing with his head after all, or that incident with the hippie left him with more issues than he'd realized.)

Stanley groans again and lifts his head enough to stare at the duo sleeping less than two feet from him. If they were any other pair of individuals, Stan would be able to admit that the position (while undeniably intimate on some level) is, overall, fairly chaste. They're both still fully dressed, even. The problem is that they _aren't_ a pair of random strangers. They're his _wife_ and his _twin brother_ , and he's jealous, dammit!

"I need a smoke," he decides, fishing the carton of cigarettes from his pocket only to pause once he has them in hand. The gargoyle takes a deep breath. Definitely not a smoking residence. Not that that's surprising. Ford's opinion on addictions in general was that they were a waste of time, money, and resources. Carla simply didn't like the smell, and she'd been quick to point out studies linking the habit to lung cancer when Stan had started experimenting back in high school. (Of course, it had actually been her impromptu 'kiss strike' that had convinced him to stop, not the statistics. ~~He'd started again shortly after she left him. Mostly out of spite. He's done a lot of things out of spite over the last few years.~~ ) Stan looks over at the sleeping woman again and asks, "You're gonna make me quit again, aren't you?" He hopes so. He's not looking forward to withdraw, but Carla only nags people she cares about.

Stan slips the carton back into the pocket of his mangled jacket and stands up. He grunts as he stretches out his limbs (all seven of them -- still weird) and one of his wings clips the nearest post of the footboard. The resulting sensation isn't too far off from stubbing a toe, jarring and far from pleasant. Stan bites back a curse and ends up hissing at the offending post instead as he tries to rub away the tingly feeling of overstimulated nerves.

The gargoyle releases his wing and stoops to pick up the journal from the floor where he'd dropped it. He considers the book in his hands carefully. Judging by what Carla said about it, the silly thing might give him some answers. He's just not sure he's ready for any more weirdness right this second. Maybe in an hour or two. Stan looks around before setting the book down on a second nightstand he hadn't noticed earlier that's mostly empty. He'll come back for it later. For now... For now, he needs to get out of this room and find something to distract himself with.

Stan glances up and down the hall as he exits the bedroom and frowns. One side ends in the staircase leading to the first floor and the other side has a set of stairs that he assumes goes to an attic. He doesn't relish the thought of trying to tackle either of them. The gargoyle decides to try the other two doors on this floor. ~~Stairs are evil.~~ Unfortunately, it doesn't take him so much as a full five minutes to deem the rooms behind both doors as utterly uninteresting. One is the bathroom. (Good to know, but pretty boring.) The other is a non-descript room that Ford apparently decided to use for storing a bunch of his nerdy projects in boxes stacked until they almost reach the ceiling. (Even worse.)

That leaves him with only the two staircases as options for further exploration. So, the question is: up or down? He doesn't really have any interest in an attic, except... Except there's an itch in his bones demanding that he go up and take a look around. Might be left over paranoia from having to watch his back for Rico's men. ~~Something tells him it has less to do with Rico's trigger-happy goons and more to do with the whole being-turned-into-a-gargoyle thing; but he doesn't really want to think about that, so he's not going to.~~

Stan struggles again with finding an easy way to navigate the elevated steps before he gives up, closes his eyes, and hopes he doesn't fall flat on his face. By some small miracle, he doesn't. ~~Excluding the landing, because he'd been expecting another step and there hadn't been one.~~ Stan opens his eyes to the sight of a short, cramped hallway with a single door on either side.

He chooses to inspect the one on the left first. More boring boxes, full of papers this time, crammed into a room that looks like it was actually _intended_ to be a storage closet. Stan turns around and opens the second door. It's some kind of office. Nothing particularly interesting there, but... Stan glances back at the stairs. He can either poke around the messy home-office or he can get started on figuring out how to get back _down_ the stairs now that he's trapped himself up here. ...Rifling through Ford's attic office it is.

There are papers everywhere, scattered over the desk, in tall stacks on the floor, and even tacked to the angled walls of the room. Stan squints at a few in half-hearted curiosity only to find too many unfamiliar symbols and complicated equations to understand what the topic off all the research and science mumbo-jumbo is to begin with. "Ugh, nerd-stuff," he gripes as he carelessly lets the page he's holding fall back onto the paper-strewn desk he'd first gotten it from.

Stanley flops down in the wheeled desk-chair. He chooses to ignore how the furniture creaks ominously under him. (Ford's whole creepy, little forest-cabin seems to threaten collapse every time he moves; but he hasn't fallen through any rotten floorboards yet, so it's probably not something he needs to worry about too much.) The gargoyle grimaces before shuffling closer to the edge of the seat and leaning forward. (He really needs to remember to leave room for his newly acquired wings and tail. They don't appreciate being crushed.) It's not entirely comfortable, but it'll work for now.

The gargoyle opens one of the large, bottom draws in the desk and his eyebrows shoot up. Stan blinks once. Twice. "Jackpot!" he cries as he reaches in to pull out one of the bottles. He's kind of surprised to find alcohol in Ford's house, but he certainly isn't complaining.

Stan opens the bottle and takes a sniff before glancing at the label. It looks fancy. And expensive. Is _this_ what his brother spends his college money on? While he leaves Stan to scrape and scrounge his way through life? The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and Stan is more than happy to use Ford's pricey alcohol to wash it out. Stan takes a defiant swig from the bottle.

...Only to spit most of it back out over the desk in front of him.

Stan chokes and sputters for nearly a minute. "The hell _is_ this shit, Ford?" he demands of the empty room once he's able to breathe again. He runs the back of his free hand over his mouth as he glares at the amber liquid still in the bottle.

Let it never be said that Stanley Jacob Pines gives up easily -- especially when he's feeling spiteful. Stan twists the cap back on the bottle, shoves it back into the draw, and pulls out another decanter. He goes through another three after the first one he'd picked out, only to produce the same result every time. Stan returns his current bottle to the drawer and slams it shut with a rattle of glass and a weak sneer.

The papers covering Ford's desk are soaked, but that's the last thing on Stan's mind. He doesn't quite feel drunk, and he doesn't quite feel hungover, and he's not entirely sure now whether or not it's actually alcohol his mad scientist brother has stored in those bottles. Regardless, even though he can't have swallowed much of the various liquids, Stan certainly isn't feeling _well_. His throat feels raw. His mouth feels like it's full of ash and embers. He's starting to feel a little queasy, too, now that he's paying attention. Stan groans in misery. "Stupid, stupid. Shouldn'ta done that."

Moving around on all fours proves to be infinitely preferable to walking in his current predicament, and Stan isn't enough of a glutton for punishment to ignore that fact. His return trip down the stairs is a disaster despite his discarded pride. Stan tries not to think too hard about what he's doing as he approaches the staircase (As far as he can tell, Carla's right about the overthinking it thing.) but, unfortunately, his first instinct on how to deal with a steep decline in terrain is apparently to use his wings and there just isn't room for them. Stan yelps wordlessly as his wings knock against the walls and he loses all control of his descent. He crash lands at the bottom of the staircase in an unorganized heap. The gargoyle curses up a bluestreak as he struggles to untangle his limbs.

By some small miracle, Stanley makes it to the bathroom before he's sick.

A pitiful sound escapes Stan once he's finished emptying the contents of his stomach. His head aches, and his eyes sting, and he hates Ford for poisoning him -- whether the nerd did it on purpose or not. Stan flushes the vomit down the pipes and tries to push himself away from the toilet bowl, but escape, like everything else about this day, doesn't come easily.

Stanley freezes in place at the sharp tug on his wings and gnashes his teeth in frustration. He looks up to find that his wings have somehow managed to work themselves into the narrow space between the tank and the wall. "Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me!" Stan snarls and his tail lashes out behind him only to crash into the wall opposite the one his wings are pinned to. Stanley growls but manages to rein his temper in before he punches a hole through the closest wall. It's a near thing, though. It takes Stan roughly fifteen minutes, and three different strategies, to figure out how to free the trapped appendages.

"About damn time," the gargoyle grumbles as he staggers to his feet. Stan turns on both of the sink's taps and angles his head to catch some of the water in his mouth. It's a relief to finally be able to wash the taste of acid and bile off his tongue. Stan spits the tainted water into the sink and turns off the flow from the faucet. And that's when he finally catches sight of his hand, the one he'd used to wipe his mouth while he was up in Ford's office, and notices the splotch of skin that's darker and irritated looking. Is that a rash?

"Great," Stan huffs, scratching lightly at the patch of skin, "I suppose in the next half-hour I'll either break out in hives or grow a second head." He glances over at the mirror above the sink to check his face and nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees the creature lurking there.

"Holy Moses!" Stan pants in shock, one hand clutching at his pounding heart and the other clutching at the wall behind him. "That's --" he swallows thickly, "That's me!" The gargoyle slowly peels himself off the wall, leaving behind five indents from where his claws had dug into the wood, and cautiously re-approaches the mirror.

Is this really what he is now? Carla had called him a 'gargoyle' and Ford had backed up the identification, but Stan hadn't really understood what they'd meant. The only gargoyles he's ever heard about are those ugly, stone statues found on the outsides of old buildings, not real, living creatures. Like most things in his life, he'd decided to roll with it and figure it out as he went. Now he's thinking he should have maybe asked a few more questions instead of being so passive about the whole thing.

For once, Stan's wings -- bat-like and far larger than he'd previously realized -- fold up neatly against his back as he leans on the bathroom counter and inspects his reflection.

Carla hadn't been kidding about the glowing eyes, though she'd failed to mention that they were _entirely_ blue. No discernable pupil or iris, nothing to mark which direction he's actually looking in. It's kind of eerie. There's also the grey skin and pointy teeth to consider. Though what really catches his attention (if only because they're the single feature he'd been _completely_ unaware of up to this point) are the pair of _horns_ that protrude from the top of his forehead and sweep back over his hair. "Seriously?" he asks his reflection. Stan reaches up and gives one of the horns an experimental tug. Not very sensitive, but very real and very attached.

Stanley continues to stare at his reflection. It's surreal. He almost wishes he looked less like himself so he could pretend that the monster he's seeing in the glass isn't him, but the features of his face remain largely unchanged and that's making denial difficult. Stan tugs on his ear next (It really is Vulcan-looking. Go figure.) then pokes his cheek, and finally -- because maturity is overrated -- sticks his tongue out at the imposter in the mirror. And out. And out. And out. And Stan draws his tongue back in, because it's starting to get freaky even compared to everything else. (Gene Simmons has nothing on him.)

"Yeesh," Stan says with a grimace full of too-sharp teeth, "If I didn't know better, I'd say it was the devil come to collect." How does Carla look him in the face and act like everything's normal? This is far from anything that should be considered normal! (Ford he can almost understand. Ford's always liked weird things.) Winning his wife back suddenly seems like a far taller mountain to climb than it had mere seconds ago. His fingers twitch, claws scraping against the ceramic of the sink. Stan turns away from the mirror before he can decide to break it. He doesn't want to have to clean up all the little shards of glass the aftermath would leave him with.

Stan slinks back into the bedroom across the hall without so much as glancing in the direction of the stairs that lead back down to the first floor. He has exactly zero interest in exploring the rest of Ford's house of horrors after what he's just been through.

The gargoyle eyes the bed longingly for a minute. He'd love nothing more than to squeeze in next to Carla. He knows exactly how to coax her into settling comfortably against his side without waking her up. Hell, he wouldn't mind curling up with Ford, if he thought he'd be welcome. Ford may have decided to pretend he was too old for that sort of thing ages ago, but Stan isn't too ashamed to admit that he _likes_ cuddling. ~~Well, he isn't ashamed to admit it to certain people. Not Pops, though. Definitely not.~~ His twin counts as cuddle-able, even if Stanford _is_ prone to complaining. Loudly. (Ford usually gives up on objecting after the first handful of minutes, though. ~~Or, at least, he used to.~~ ) Still, he hasn't gotten so much as a _hug_ out of Stanford since he's arrived. He isn't about to delude himself into thinking Ford would allow it, because he won't. His brother's made it plenty clear that he doesn't want Stanley around, let alone intruding on his personal space.

It doesn't matter much, in the end. Sleep apparently means being _entombed in stone_. And as much as he'd like to nap off the rest of this horrible affliction, Stan isn't in any hurry to go back to the muffled, half-existence he'd been trapped in only a short while ago. In fact, he'll avoid returning to it at all if he has any say in the matter, thank you very much.

(How long can it really take a genius like Ford to come up with an antidote -- or counter-magic-thing, or whatever -- that can get him back to normal, anyway? Shouldn't take more than a day or two, right? He can go without sleep for that long. No problem!)

Stanley sighs. Maybe it's time to look through his brother's stupid journal. The gargoyle stays low as he circles the bed (The floorboards creak less that way, though they still squeak some. His stomach is still a bit unsettled, anyway.) and retrieves the book from the nightstand he'd left it on before retreating to the far corner of the room from the door. ~~Old habits die hard.~~

He searches for the pages about gargoyles first. There's a few interesting tidbits, but there's not nearly as much information as he'd been hoping for. And there is absolutely _nothing_ written about the 'tether,' even though Ford obviously knows about it. Stan isn't sure what to make of Ford's decision to exclude the information from the journal. He goes over the pages twice more before flipping to the beginning of the book. (He tucks the photos that fall out back in against the cover, but the images of a floor covered in circles upon circles and littered with runes -- Or maybe sigils? Some other nerdy word he doesn't know? -- leave him wondering if Ford hasn't gotten involved with some kind of cult.) May as well see what else in this crazy town Stanford thought was worth writing about.

He's not sure how long he spends reading about migrating tree giants, manotaur clans (sounds like his kind of scene, honestly -- full of suckers) and the elusive multibear. When he gets to the entry on a _magical glade_ that serves as a home to a bunch of prissy _unicorns_ , of all things, Stan decides it might be time to take a break and save whatever is left of his sanity.

Stan returns the journal to the nightstand and takes a glance at the alarm clock resting on its counterpart across the bed. A bit after midnight. Ford and Carla have been sleeping for roughly five hours at this point. Carla had specifically said _eight_. She probably wouldn't be happy with him if he tried to cut that by nearly half. Three more hours. He could do that.

Stan surveys the bedroom. There's not much to the room but he'd rather not risk another excursion out into the rest of the house when he has no clue what Ford may or may not have experimented on. He's feeling better, and the rash on his hand is mostly gone. He doesn't have any desire to risk finding something _worse_ than whatever had been in those bottles.

He settles for poking through Ford's closet. There's the predictable lineup of button-down shirts, nerdy sweater-vests, and slacks. There's also at least four lab coats, another coat that's identical to the one Ford had been wearing earlier, and a pair of boots Stan is convinced have never been cleaned. More interesting, however, is the large cardboard box shoved into the corner of the closet that has  _his_ name written on it in large letters.

Stan blinks down at the box. Well, he certainly hadn't been expecting that. The gargoyle crouches down and drags the box out of the closet. (Carla's responsible for this, he knows that much. He can tell, not just because it's her handwriting spelling out 'STANLEY' -- not Ford's -- but because she's done that flap-half-over-half-under-pseudo-spiral thing that's always annoyed him. Ford doesn't do that. No one else Stan has ever met does that. But Carla does.) He tears one of the flaps in half trying to wrestle it open. On the positive side, the rest of the flaps fold away easily after that.

Stanley peers down into the newly-opened box curiously before breaking into a grin like Christmas just came early. In a way, it has, because those are definitely presents wrapped up in winter-themed paper.

Or...

Maybe...

There are nine packages, but six are done up in the same wrapping, so there are only _four_ different designs in all. One for every year he's missed spending the holiday with Carla.

Christmas came _late_ , he realizes, but he hasn't been forgotten. Stanley sniffles and grabs one of the gifts at random. (He isn't tearing up over Christmas presents. Don't be ridiculous. It's allergies. From the dust. Ford should take better care of his house.)

He has to bite back a bark of laughter when the first gift turns out to be a coffee mug with his name on one side and a collection of little Christmas trees on the other. It's a sight pun. Stanley _Pines_. She must have been feeling sentimental when she picked it up. It brings back memories from their first Christmas. The design isn't _exactly_ the same, but it is _very_ close to the mug she'd given him all those years ago. (Then the little minx -- whom he'd been dating for all of seven months, at the time -- had come back into the room sipping hot chocolate from a matching mug with _her_ name on it. Stan had nearly choked on his own tongue. Carla had laughed and denied everything. Her smile had said otherwise, though.)

Stan sets the mug aside and reaches for the six presents in matched wrapping, next.

He tears away the paper and is confused to find a plain picture frame holding a piece of paper that has the words 'Comet' and 'Cupid' written neatly along the bottom but is otherwise blank. He turns the frame over but finds no helpful explanation on the back and sets the baffling item on the floor next to his mug. Stanley grabs another of the similarly wrapped gifts. (He's going to go out on a limb and guess they're all picture frames. Excluding one that is smaller than its brethren, they are all of the same size and shape.) This time, a pair of goofy creatures -- each made from a painted pair of handprints for antlers and a footprint for a face -- with equally comical marker-drawn expressions, reside over the words 'Dasher' and 'Dancer.' The gargoyle blinks as the pieces fall into place. These are supposed to be Santa's reindeer, done in a way that's reminiscent of children's Thanksgiving handprint turkeys. Stan stares at the silly, misproportioned animals and is more than a little puzzled over them. They're amusing, sure. But _Carla_ is the one who grew up with stories about Santa Claus, not Stanley -- not from home, anyway -- and that makes the choice of gift odd, to say the least.

Stan unwraps Prancer and Vixen, followed by something that Stan is nearly one-hundred percent sure doesn't actually exist in any of the traditional folklore: the 'Christmas Moose.' It's obviously Ford's contribution. Those particular antlers (bedecked in an array of red and green fingerprint lights) couldn't have been done by anyone else, after all; though it looks like Carla was the one that kept control over the marker used to make the thing's longsuffering face. (Stan swears the moose's expression is a dead ringer for his twin, some days. All that's missing is Ford's glasses.) Stanley sets that one aside with a soft chuckle. He finds Donner and Blitzen next -- blank, like the first set.

That leaves the smallest one. Stan's betting it's Rudolph. What else could it be? (An elf? The sleigh? Ol' Saint Nick himself? ...A 'Christmas Mouse' to go with the earlier moose? That could be funny. But Rudolph would fit the pattern best.) Stan rips away the wrapping and stares as his mind tries to comprehend what it is he's seeing.

It's Rudolph, alright. The big, red nose makes that immediately apparent. It's just... tiny. An itty-bitty foot stamped over two small, clumsy hands. Child-sized. _Baby-sized_.

What is --

That doesn't --

No, that's not --

How --

Who even --

...A baby?

Stan gasps for breath after the burning of his lungs finally manages to draw his attention to the fact that he hasn't been. Breathing, that is.

Stanley places the frame on the floor with shaking hands. And, after a short hesitation, carefully pushes it yet further away before quickly withdrawing as if afraid to get bitten.

There's no kid in the house. That much, he knows. Not currently, anyway. So what happened to the kid? Or, maybe the better question is what Ford and Carla are doing... with a... oh...

Oh, hell no.

No.

Absolutely not. He did not just think that! He refuses to -- No! He'd been surly and picked a fight earlier, but he hadn't seriously thought -- No. Nope. He's not going to think about it because _it's not true_. It _can't_ be. That's not a line Ford would cross. Right? Right! And Carla wouldn't do this to him. The hippie would have been one thing, but this is _Ford_ , his _twin_ , and -- And there are other explanations for why there might have been a kid. The kid could be -- Adopted! That's a possibility, isn't it? All sorts of things could have lead up to that! Or... Or Carla could have been babysitting _someone else's_ kid! Actually, that one would make a lot of sense. Wouldn't it? It certainly explains why there isn't a kid in the house _now_ , at least.

The steel clamp that had been trying to cave in his chest loosens at the thought. The fact that some random kid's prints are a part of his presents seems a bit weird, but he's never claimed to understand _everything_ that Carla does. Hell, she may have decided to throw it in solely because she thought it was _cute_. It doesn't have to be any more complicated than that. It _doesn't_.

Stanley takes a deep breath. Right. He doesn't know anything for sure yet. He can... He can wait for Carla to wake up and... They'll go from there. No need to jump to ugly conclusions. ~~He can't lose them again. Not both of them. Not like this.~~ He turns to the next gift, determined to put off any further contemplation over tiny, reindeer-making feet and what they might mean.

The universe has no mercy.

It let him breathe again only to turn around and stab him through the heart.

"No," Stan croaks, surrounded by scraps of paper and with yet another picture frame in his hands -- this one more festive and with an actual photo in it.

It's a nice scene, if one ignores the implications. There's a Christmas tree, wrapped packages, and multi-colored lights everywhere. Those aren't important, though. Stanford's in the photo, sat on the floor, missing his glasses and laughing. He looks _happy_. Happier than Stanley's seen his brother in what feels like forever. There's a toddler sitting in Ford's lap -- the child can't be older than two -- holding the man's glasses, upside-down at that, to his own small face and grinning. The boy has Carla's small nose and curly, brown hair, but there's no denying that the child is a Pines.

The little glasses-thief stares out at the rest of the world from a pair of excited, hazel eyes.

Just like Ford.


	16. The Eye in the Storm

He doesn't enjoy waiting. But, when you're a nigh-immortal being with BIG plans to turn entire dimensions on their heads against all laws of the multiverse, well, you learn a thing or two about patience. What's another handful of years after you've waited _thousands_? Funny enough, but it's always those last few hours and minutes of waiting for an opportunity where time _really_ seems to start dragging its feet.

Good ol' Six Fingers' mindscape had opened up a few minutes ago. It's too bad he can't pop in and play with his favorite pawn for a while. It would certainly help pass the time; or, at least, it _would_ if giving Stanford a nice nightmare wouldn't keep the pawn he _actually_ needs to talk to from going to sleep at all.

Bill perks up as the walls around the mindscape he'd been waiting on begin to shift, unfurling like the petals of a night-blooming flower. "Finally," he scoffs, slipping through the cracks in the outer-shield of the mind in question, "I was starting to wonder if you were gonna stand me up."

The dream demon finds himself in a familiar room with a familiar set of teenagers sitting on a familiar couch. (Or, more accurately, the two boys are sitting on opposite ends while their couch-hog companion is lounging across the entire thing without much care as to where her head or feet end up resting.) "Jersey?" Bill asks, unable to keep the incredulous tone from his voice. He fixes his eye on the girl scowling at him from the couch. "Really, Shooting Star?"

Carla pushes herself up into a sitting position in between (her mental projections of) the Pines twins and everything in the room ages years in a matter of seconds. Faint wrinkles creep over formerly youthful faces, clothes change, furniture sags, stains appear, the carpet is trampled, and the light changes from the buttery-yellow glow of a fond memory to the harsh, unflattering white of critical thought.

Carla glares at the floating triangle. "So, I'm feeling a little nostalgic. What's it to you?" she demands, fingers digging into the edge of the cushion she's sitting on.

"Oh, not much," Bill admits freely. He inspects the changes to the environment. "That one's gotten a bit tubbier," he comments while pointing at the twin on her right. Her version of Stanley is not only still human, but also sporting the toned body of a man that labors all day for their paycheck. And isn't _that_ interesting? "Or he was when he showed up on his brother's doorstep, anyway." The triangle shrugs. "From what I hear, he's had a bit of a _monstrous_ transformation, recently. I guess it wouldn't be too surprising if he burned through a few hundred-thousand calories instantly, though, growing all those new limbs and turning into a hideous beast -- not that you humans are very attractive to begin with! You know, now that I think about it, it's probably a good thing that it was _him_ and not Fordsy that landed on my sigil. There might not have been anything left!"

The woman's eyes narrow. "What do you want, Cipher?"

While he would love to cut to the chase every bit as much as Shooting Star would, she's too defensive right now to go right into it. "I can't just swing by to say hello?" he asks, single eye wide.

"No," comes the clipped response.

"You wound me, Shooting Star," Bill says, clapping his hands over the spot just beneath his bowtie, "You've been gone for months. I missed our chats!"

"Right," Carla drawls. "You spent a lot of time trying to get rid of me, and now you're pissed off because I'm back. Hell," the woman smirks, "you're _afraid_. You feel your chance at manipulating Stanford into doing your dirty-work slipping away and it's making you desperate. _That's_ why you're here."

Bill's form turns red and begins to grow rapidly. "YOU LITTLE --"

"Don't you take that tone with me, buster!" she yells back, jumping to her feet and marching forward. The room around them flickers before disappearing altogether, leaving the woman and triangle in the middle of a raging ocean. Carla's feet move just as surely over the choppy waves as they had the rundown carpet of the apartment they'd been in only a second before. Her size doubles, triples, quadruples, and more, until she achieves the same imposing height as the entity that is intruding on her sleeping mind. "You're in _my_ head, Cipher, and _I_ am the supreme, all-powerful being here! So, don't you dare think you can intimidate me by pitching a child's tantrum and making a spectacle of yourself!" She jabs an accusing finger at him and does her best to stare him down.

Bill glares back stubbornly for a moment but soon switches tacks. He's smart enough to know when something isn't working, and has, in fact, begun to work against him. The red fades away to be replaced by his usual yellow facade. Bill squints in amusement and asks, "Walking on water, Shooting Star?"

Carla huffs and rolls her eyes. Lightning flashes through the roiling clouds surrounding them and thunder rumbles in answer. "What can I say? It's easy to have complete faith in your own mindscape." She leans back and crosses her arms over her chest. "Now, what do you want, Cipher?"

Bill weighs his options carefully. Shooting Star doesn't seem much more likely to listen to him than she had been when he entered her mindscape. On the other angle, this might be the best he's going to get out of her. Curse this temperamental meat-sack and her stubborn refusal to work with him. Still, just because he's never been able to understand what makes the woman tick, doesn't mean he hasn't figured out a weak point or three he can press on.

"Well, what I'd really like is for us to make a little _deal_ ," he says, holding up one hand and staring at it appreciatively as it bursts into blue flames. His eye slides back to the woman. "But I'm sure that won't be happening."

"No," Carla says tightly, "it won't."

The dream demon sighs dramatically and extinguishes the fire with a careless flick of the wrist. "I thought as much," he concedes, "I kinda hoped you might actually care about Stanley as much as you claim you do, but I can't say I'm surprised you don't."

Carla's lips twist unhappily, and reluctantly she asks, "What are you going on about?"

"Well, the big lug's got a bit of a problem at the moment, doesn't he? Wings... Claws... Big, pointy teeth!" Bill's eye changes into a threatening, snapping maw for an instant before returning to normal. "I _made_ that sigil! It's a pretty clever piece of magic, you know, but you haven't even asked me about reversing it!"

Carla's scowl deepens. "First off," she says, raising one finger, "I don't trust you to fix anything, let alone something you caused. Second," she adds another finger, "I already know whatever price you'd ask for is too high. Third," another finger, "I have faith in Stanford. He'll find a solution soon enough. All I have to do is be patient and make sure you can't sink your claws into him any deeper than you already have."

"Tch, it's cute that you believe Sixer can unravel one of my curses, but the sad fact is that his puny human mind doesn't hold the knowledge he'd need to do so."

"Ford's smart. He'll figure something out."

Bill's eye begins to twitch. "My sigil uses mystic runes from seven different dimensions! I never taught even half of them to Stanford! _No one_ in your pathetic, little dimension has the knowledge to undo it! You want your precious husband back to normal? You're going to NEED ME!" Red begins to crawl along the triangle's yellow edges as he struggles to maintain his tenuous hold over his temper.

Carla purses her lips in disapproval. "No. Sorry. I don't believe that." She makes a throwing motion with her empty, right hand.

Bill's eye widens in shock as a harpoon materializes in midair just in time for him to identify the object before it finds its mark.

* * *

"SHOOTING STAR!" Bill howls as he struggles to pull the harpoon from his eye. That had been a new one. She isn't normally so violent. He isn't sure if this is a good or bad sign for his plans long-term, but it's sure as Hell painful _now_. Bill finally succeeds in wrenching the giant spear free. There is a second of nothing but numb shock and then --

"YEOWCH!" Bill screeches as nerves (well, the dream demon equivalent) scream over the abuse that's been inflicted on his form. "I'm going to _kill_ that little -- AUGHHH!" It takes an agonizing forty-three seconds for his eye to heal.

Sight restored, Bill takes the chance to glare at his surroundings. Back in the general Dreamscape. No surprise there. He eyes the mindscape he's just been evicted from. Petal-like shields still lowered, an easily-infiltrated, sleeping mind. She doesn't even have the decency to have woken up gasping in terror.

Bill allows himself to fantasize about going back in and putting that tiny, insignificant mortal in her place. Unfortunately, she isn't as insignificant as he'd like for her to be. In reality, she's been one of the biggest thorns in his side throughout the entirety of his current, millennia-long plan. Every time he thinks he's got Six Fingers -- knowingly or not -- on track with everything else, Shooting Star swoops in and ruins it. And the damn woman doesn't even know about the portal! It shouldn't be possible! Oh, but how he _loathes_ that woman!

He forces himself away from Carla's mindscape. As much as he'd love to give her what she deserves, there are more effective ways to go about his plans. He's driven her from Gravity Falls once. He's certain he can do it again. He might even be able to use the same tactic twice. And if it doesn't work, well, he'll have to think up a different strategy, but it will still be a barrel of laughs to mess with Stanford's head some more.


	17. Old Patterns

Carla wakes slowly, consciousness rising up to replace the lingering remnants of dreams already half-forgotten. (Except for Bill. Dreams the demon uses to contact her always stay disturbingly clear in her memories.) The woman groans softly as she props herself up on one arm and clumsily rubs the sleep from her eyes with her other hand. She squints through bleary eyes at the alarm clock on Ford's nightstand. The red, glowing numbers cut easily through the room's relative darkness; a bright '01:37' covers the clock's digital display. She's been asleep for six hours. It's not the eight she'd been hoping for, but she isn't surprised, really.

Carla peeks over her shoulder to find Stanford still sleeping. And peacefully, at that. It won't last, but it's good to see all the same. Carla allows herself a relieved smile. (She tries not to think about how soon the demon will ruin his rest. She'll need to get on Bill's case about that, starting tonight. The only thing they've ever agreed on is that neither of them want to see Ford _dead_ , and the dream demon isn't particularly good at judging human limitations.)

"Sleep well, Poindexter," she whispers before beginning the tedious, gradual process of teasing loose the man's grasp so she can escape. Normally, on the rare occasion that Ford slept in, she'd just wait for him to wake up, but she needs to find Stanley and make sure he hasn't gotten himself into trouble. It would be too easy in this house and trouble is Ley's specialty.

After about three minutes of gentle prying, Carla is finally able to slip free of the scientist's hold. Ford has gotten too adept at adjusting and shifting with her over the years. Not that she can blame him; she wouldn't want to be left on her own while being forced to face down a creature that had literally reduced her to a mere puppet in the past, either. She's never experienced that kind of helplessness herself. And it's not something Stanford has to contend with anymore, either (thanks to some crazy stunt he'd pulled before she'd first arrived in Gravity Falls that involved putting, not just _one_ , but a _pair_ of metal plates in his head) but there's no denying that the experience left behind scars -- physical and otherwise. Stanford's fear is the greatest hold Bill maintains over the scientist. If she could just break _that_...

Carla yawns as she stretches, heading for the door. Hopefully, she can track down Ley, make sure he's still in one piece, and be back before Stanford falls victim to any of Cipher's nightmares. The woman throws one last glance back into the room and freezes when she spots the glowing eyes trained on her. Looks like Ley hasn't wandered off after all. Strange, she'd been certain he'd go stir crazy in this little room.

He's not looking too great as it is, though. The gargoyle is half-hidden under his own wings, curled in on himself with his shoulders hunched up nearly to his ears and his tail wrapped around his legs. He looks miserable.

Carla sighs and backtracks into the room. "Hey," she greets softly and Stanley stiffens.

"Hey," he returns in a hoarse whisper, hands tightening of the picture frame in his hands.

Carla's stride falters for a moment as she finally registers the scraps of paper littering the floor around Ley, the small collection of frames (and one coffee mug) set in front of him, and the cardboard box at his left. He's found his Christmas presents. He's found out about Jason on his own before she'd gotten around to telling him.

The woman takes a deep breath and settles on the floor at Stanley's right side close enough to brush against his wing. He doesn't stop her. She can only hope that's a good sign.

"This isn't how I wanted you to find out," she admits. Carla wraps her arms around one leg and leans forward, resting her cheek against her raised knee. "Well?" she asks, trying to suppress the nervousness flooding through her, "What do you think?"

(She's spent years waiting to hear his answer. Years of dread and hope and uncertainty and wistfulness. She's imagined how this moment might go thousands upon thousands of times. She's still not sure she's ready to face his reaction, but the moment is here whether she's ready for it or not.)

Stanley looks at her for a long minute before he says, "He looks like Ford."

Carla snorts and doesn't bother to hide the smile tugging at her lips. "Why am I not surprised that's the first thing out of your mouth?" she asks.

Stanley's mouth flattens into an angry line and he looks away. "So how long has that been going on? You and Ford?"

A frown soon replaces her smile as amusement gives way to confusion. "What do you --" Carla starts to ask before the insinuation finally dawns on her. Her jaw drops from shock before snapping closed in indignation. She takes a page from Stanley's own book and lets her fist fly. It's an awkward angle but her fist manages to find its target well enough.

"Owch!" Stanley yelps more out of habit than hurt. The gargoyle makes a show of rubbing his shoulder and growls at her, "What was that for?"

Carla glares up at her estranged husband defiantly. She plucks the frame from the gargoyle's hand without breaking eye contact. " _This_ ," she hisses, "happens to be a very nice picture of _your brother_ and _your son_ , you ape!"

Stanley's posture takes on a sudden uncertainty at her words. "But --"

"And I cannot _believe_ you think I'd actually do that to you! Start some, some _sordid affair_ with Stanford! _Stanford!_ Of all the repulsive, unethical, atrocious behaviors I expected you to accuse me of, fooling around with _Ford_ was not one of them! I can't imagine the level of depravity you must think I'm capable of if you're seriously accusing me of using your brother like some cheap --" Her eyes narrow as another thought occurs to her. She takes another swing at Ley's shoulder.

"Hey!" Stanley cries as the hit lands. "Stop that!"

"I can't believe you think I would do that to _Ford_!" she burst, flinging one arm toward the bed to indicate the man that is (thankfully) still sleeping. "Do you have any idea what it would do to him if he thought I was using him as a cheap replacement for my husband? It would destroy him! He has enough insecurities as it is. The last thing he needs is a reason to doubt why I care about him! To wonder if it's even _him_ I care about at all!"

"But, the kid --"

"Be very careful what you say next, Ley," she warns.

He swallows thickly. "He's, he's got hazel eyes. Like Stanford. Not... Not --"

Carla crosses her arms. "Yes, he does," she agrees, "And probably for the same reasons as Stanford does, too, seeing as Ma's eyes are _green_ and Filbrick's are _brown_. Unless you want to tell me that Ford actually belongs to the milkman." The woman raises her brows challengingly.

"That's not --" Stanley shakes his head and tries again, "The kid's too young, anyway. I haven't seen you in four years, Carla. Four years! And, and when you left, you weren't, you weren't -- pregnant!"

She straightens her spine to squeeze out every inch of height she can get without standing up. (Stanley's hunched form still dwarfs her, but that's besides the point.) "I left in _May_ and this picture is over a year old -- Christmas of Nineteen-Eighty. We've been separated for three years and nine months. Your _son_ had his third birthday last month. On the tenth. I was," Carla bites her lip as her offense wavers under the familiar weight of the guilt she harbors over the entire situation, "I was about a month pregnant when I left. I just... hadn't realized." She sighs and pushes one hand through her bangs. "You deserved to know _ages_ ago. I... I should have told you _last night_ , really, but you were already struggling to adjust to so _much_ and I didn't want to throw fatherhood on top of everything else, so I, I just, just -- _didn't_! Even though I _knew_ I needed to tell you; I didn't know _how_ , a-and I, I --"

Ley makes a sound almost like a keen before he pulls Carla to him. "Breathe, Baby," he orders, voice rough but gentle, "Breathe." The woman sniffles. Stanley huffs softly and tugs her closer still. He bends down and nuzzles the side of her neck. A growl -- the purr-like one that Carla is already starting to become accustomed to -- builds in his chest and it isn't long until it's strong enough to send vibrations through both of them.

Carla hiccups, wraps an arm around Ley's shoulders, and uses her free hand in a half-hearted attempt to mop up her tears with her shirtsleeve. "You should be yelling at me," she says quietly once she has herself back under control -- mostly.

Stanley freezes. The growl hitches before trailing off. He pulls away from her neck and studies her face for several long seconds. "Maybe," he finally grumbles, "S'not what you need from me, though."

"The tether?"

Ley frowns unhappily. "Might have more of an affect on me than I first thought," he allows in a grumpy rumble, "Still don't think it's a problem, though."

Carla sighs and rests her head against the shoulder she hasn't been trying to tenderize. "Of course you don't," she mumbles under her breath.

"Hey, I'm serious about that," Ley coaxes her into pulling away enough to look at him. "We just skipped over most'a the screamin', and sulking on opposite ends of the house, and the awkward apologies, and the makin' up -- though I wouldn't be against backin' things up to that step," he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. Carla can't help the half-hysterical giggle that escapes her in response. "And went straight to the cuddling part."

"You're incorrigible," she accuses with a tremulous smile.

Stanley shrugs. "My wife's a knockout," he asserts, "No sane person would blame me."

Carla's breath catches in her throat and then she's kissing him before she can think better of it.


	18. New Instincts

Something like a surprised gasp leaves him before quickly turning into a happy hum. Stan slides his hands down her back to settle at her waist and lets the woman in his arms take the lead.

He moans as Carla begins to tease his lower lip. It isn't long before she's asking for more and he nearly lets her before he remembers. Stan pulls away, already regretting the action. "Teeth," he warns as he tries to regain his breath, "Sharp." To Stanley's pleasure, Carla isn't deterred so much as rerouted. Her kisses trail to the corner of his mouth, his jawline, his cheek, his temple. Carla nips at his earlobe and Stan's vision explodes with light.

He comes back to himself to find a shocked Carla pinned beneath him and he's _growling_ at her. Stanley practically chokes on the sound and scrambles, trying put distance between them without accidentally crushing or scaring the woman under him. "Sorry! Sorry! I didn't mean to -- I --" he's cut off by Carla's laugh.

Carla Anne Pines, crazy woman that she is, slips a hand around the back of his neck and nips his ear again. He doesn't lose all sense of himself this time, but another growl escapes past bared teeth before he can clamp down on the instinct. Carla grins. She then proceeds to completely floor him when she attempts to copy the deep, aggressive sound herself. It's far from a perfect imitation but -- oh. Oh. That's not fair. That doesn't have any right be half so arousing as it is.

Stan groans and presses close. He hides his face against Carla's neck and tries to get control over all the clamoring instincts and desires making it hard to think. Only a few of them are familiar and he's terrified of what may happen if he lets go. "You're insane, you know that?" he asks, "I could have hurt you."

Carla's answering hum is decidedly noncommittal in nature. One hand begins to play with his hair while the other remains at his nape. Her nose brushes the tip of his ear. "I trust you," she whispers.

He groans again and shifts to start planting little kisses up and down her neck. "I'm not sure you should right now, babydoll," Stan murmurs against her skin, "Something twice your size growls at you and shows you its teeth, you're not supposed to invite it closer -- even if he _is_ a handsome devil."

Carla looses a bark of laughter. "Narcissist!" she accuses.

"Nah," he denies easily, "got something better than myself to admire." He sucks at her neck.

"Oh," her hands fist in his hair, " _Ley_."

Another growl. He doesn't bother trying to stop this one. (If Carla isn't afraid, maybe he doesn't need to be, either.) Stan runs his fingers along the waistband of Carla's jeans.

"Stanl--" she cuts herself off with a little gasp followed by a moan as he carefully nips her collarbone before sucking on the delicate skin. He starts fumbling with the button and Carla draws in a sharp breath. "St-stop!"

Stan freezes. That is not what he'd thought she'd been about to say. It certainly isn't what he'd _wanted_ to hear. Slowly, slowly he pulls away. He takes a moment to check the tether, almost without thinking. (It's a little disturbing how natural it feels to use something he still doesn't understand in the least.) There's a trickle of anxiety and... nothing else. No help there.

Stan hovers over Carla uncertainly as they stare at each other, both of them breathing heavily in the ensuing quiet.

"Carla?" Stan eventually asks when the woman makes no move to... do anything, really.

She stares at him for a second more before groaning and burying her face in her hands. "We can't do this."

Stanley twitches at the announcement. "Why not?" (He's not whining. He's _not_.)

Carla opens her eyes and peers up at him from between her fingers. "For starters," she has an impressively dry voice for someone still trying to catch her breath, "your brother happens to be in the room."

He considers this fact for the entire half-second he decides it deserves. "Poindexter's sleeping. He never has to know." He dips his head to start admiring her neck again, on the opposite side from earlier.

" _Stanley_ ," Carla scolds, or tries to. He has a hard time taking the warning seriously when it's so obvious she's fighting not to laugh.

"Never. Has. To know," Stan insists between kisses.

"Mhm," she hums. It's not an agreement. "Doesn't matter, anyway," she says after a moment, "We're not experimenting with cross-species sex, Ley. We have no idea what that might do to a person." A pause as Stanley groans, and then, "Or a gargoyle, for that matter."

Stan feels another growl -- different, somehow, from the earlier ones -- build and catch at the base of his throat. (More frustrated, less aroused, he guesses. He hadn't realized there were different kinds before now.) He spares the bed a glare and grouses, "Nerd better fix this fast."

"Oh, believe me, you're not the only one who wants this fixed quickly," Carla agrees before whispering in his ear, "I have plans for you, Knucklehead."

Stan's breath hitches and comes out in a weak moan. " _Tease_ ," he manages.

Carla giggles. "Haven't I always been?"

"Hmph," he grunts as he sits up, "I remember enjoying it more when we were teenagers." He helps Carla up and then pulls her into his lap.

His eyes land on the photo that caused his latest crisis and it reminds him that he might have something more pressing to focus on than getting into his wife's pants. Stan scoops up the picture frame and stares at the toddler. "He's really mine?" His voice comes out small but he can't bring himself to care much.

Carla wraps her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek. "Ten fingers, ten toes, all yours," she promises.

Stan swallows thickly. "I don't know how to be someone's dad."

"You'll learn," she says, voice soft but full of rock-steady conviction. (He'd forgotten how much faith she'd always had in him. He'd forgotten how good it felt to have someone believe in him.) "Relax, Ley, no one's expecting you to be perfect right from the beginning."

He nods and tries not to start crying. "Tell me everything?"

"His name is Jason," Carla begins, "Jason Phillip Pines. And he's been looking forward to meeting his daddy since he's been old enough to understand what a daddy is."


	19. Nightmares Taking Form

Ford stumbles to a stop as he comes to a clearing in the woods. He glances around warily before realizing, "I'm dreaming." A shiver races up his spine. He only has lucid dreams when...

"Hey there, Sixer!"

Ford whips around and backpedals when he finds himself face to face with a pair of yellow, slit-pupiled eyes. ~~Think of the demon and he shall appear.~~ It takes a second for it to register in his mind just what he is seeing, and another second is spent staring in something like horrified shock before the man wrenches his head to the side and closes his eyes. Unfortunately, in the Mindscape, his actions do little to dampen his perception. (Dreams can be funny like that. An expanded awareness with senses that go beyond the waking mind's ability to comprehend.) Still, he isn't about to openly gawk.

Bill laughs, a high-pitched chortle. "Oh, don't be like that, Stanford!" the dream demon cajoles mockingly. He sets one hand on the hip of his borrowed form and uses the other to flip long hair over his shoulder. Bill leans forward and his smile stretches just a tad wider. "We both know you like this form."

"Not on _you_ ," Ford grinds the words out from between clenched teeth, "And you could have at least put some clothes on!" The man pauses. Clothes. Clothes are a very good idea he realizes. He can't _change_ Bill's chosen form, of course, but he can wrap it up in some of his own mental projections if he concentrates for just a moment.

"Hey!" Bill objects loudly, but Ford relaxes as idea becomes reality and a modesty-preserving layer of soft pinks and purples materializes around Cipher's stolen body. The demon pouts, "It's not like I was showing you anything you hadn't seen before!" Bill says before he smirks and amends, "Well, not much, anyway. But I guess she never did let you see the _full_ package -- even if she didn't leave much to the imagination!"

The man glares and says nothing.

"'Course, you've got a pretty good imagination, too," Bill continues, "Don't you, Stanford?" The demon bites his lip and twirls a lock of brown curls around his finger.

Ford's face flushes red with ~~shame and~~ anger. He screams wordlessly as he tackles Cipher to the ground.

A jar runs through both bodies as they hit the floor of the clearing. There's a quiet gasp followed by, "F-Ford?"

That's not Bill's voice. Stanford finds himself staring down into a pair of frightened, blue eyes. No. No no no nononono! He scrambles away, only for the blue to be replaced once more with that hated yellow shade.

The dream demon howls with laughter. "Oh! Oh, your face was _priceless_ , Six Fingers!" Bill declares between his grating cackles, "It's so easy to get under your skin with this face!" His laughter cuts off abruptly but he still wears a large, disturbing grin over Carla's stolen features when he sits up. Bill stares Stanford directly in the eye as he says, "I wonder what you'll do when you finally hurt her for real."

Stanford takes a shaky breath. "I won't," he denies.

"Are you sure?" the demon challenges, "We both know you're dangerous. How easily you could --"

"Enough!" Stanford snaps, "I'm not going to let you twist my thoughts like this again!"

"Oh?" Bill says, "I don't recall them requiring that much twisting."

"I wouldn't hurt her," Ford states stubbornly, "And you don't have the means to do so."

Bill shrugs too easily. "Maybe you're right," he agrees, "There's a good chance it won't matter for much longer, anyway. Now that her hubby's back in the picture, I doubt she's going to keep wasting her time on you."

Ford stiffens. "She wouldn't..." He swallows thickly and tries again, "Carla isn't so fickle."

Cipher snorts derisively. "Really? Are we talking about the same woman?" the demon questions, "I don't understand why you have so much faith in her. She's already abandoned you once over your dumb brother. Of course, that's only the first time she's ditched you, and she certainly hasn't been around recently!"

"She hardly 'abandoned' me," he corrects with a frown, "She left, true, but she kept in touch. She called more frequently than Ma did, for that matter." Ford draws in a steadying breath, "I asked her to leave the second time. And you're almost entirely responsible for the circumstances that made it necessary."

Bill waves a dismissive hand. "Dress it up however you like, Sixer; but however you look at it, Shooting Star's proven she doesn't have any trouble leaving you behind. It's clear that you don't mean all that much to her. Certainly not compared to that idiot she's so besotted with. Soon enough, she'll leave you again. What is it you humans say, again? 'The third time's the charm'? Maybe she'll finally get tired of this back and forth game and _stay_ gone."

Stanford looks away. "Perhaps. She'd certainly be safer if she stayed away from Gravity Falls. It's her choice. It always has been."

"That's cute, but we both know you've never been her _first_ choice," Bill coos, "You're just the back-up plan, Stanford."

The man scowls at his unwanted companion. "It's not a contest!"

"Isn't it? Last I checked, you humans couldn't be two places at once. The second you free yourself of your deadbeat brother is the second you lose your little would-be girlfriend. Oh! And you can say goodbye to your kid, too, come to think of it!"

Ford crosses his arms and redirects his gaze to the ground. "Jason isn't mine," he manages. It hurts to say.

"Your head says one thing, but that squishy organ in your chest says something different," Bill taunts, "Not that it matters. You'll be losing the kid even before he and his mother _actually_ leave. It'll start bit by bit the moment he's introduced to 'Daddy.'" Bill pauses for a second to let the thought sink in before adding, "I'm willing to bet the same will be true with Shooting Star, too! In fact..." Bill forces himself back into Ford's line-of-sight and gives the human a too-wide grin, "I'd say it's already happening."

"You're, you're _wrong_ ," Ford shudders as Bill continues to encroach on his space, "It's not -- That's not how a family works."

"Seems like it's par for the course in _your_ family," Bill counters, "If you can call it a family to begin with!" He laughs.

"Shut up!"

Bill stops and eyes the human eagerly. "Believe what you want, Fordsy, but take a look around you first." Bill takes a step closer so he and Ford are nearly nose-to-nose and toe-to-toe. The demon stage-whispers gleefully, "She isn't _here_ , Stanford."

Ford's eyes widen and he stumbles backward from Bill. "No." He looks desperately to the sky over the clearing for any tell-tale signs that he hasn't been left alone but there are no signs to be found. "No." He takes a few panicked breaths before returning his gaze to the threat in front of him.

"Face it, Stanford!" Bill crows as he throws his arms above his head, "It's your destiny to be used and abandoned!" Bill's guise begins to _melt_. Carla's features twist and warp grotesquely until the false form suddenly explodes, sending blood and gore flying in all directions as the shredded remains of Cipher's meat-suit hit the forest floor with a sickening _slorp_ of skin and fluids. Bill Cipher gloats over the cowering man in front of him. "I didn't start the cycle," the triangle chirps in demented cheer, "but I'll be the one to end _it_ and _you_! The only question is how many of your loved ones you're going to drag down with you!"

"No!" Ford gasps, frantically searching for a way to escape as menacing, half-realized creatures (or are they yet more demons?) begin to appear in the woods, staring at him hungrily from between the trees. Panic digs its sharp claws into his chest. "No! NO!" He needs to get away. He needs to wake up. But he can't find an opening to escape through. He's trapped.

Bill's hands ignite in blue flames. "We have a DEAL, Stanford!" he reminds the man in a booming voice, "You're MINE!"

Ford screams.

And then wind sweeps through the forest. The breeze rustles the leaves on the surrounding trees and tugs at Stanford's hair as the sky steadily begins to take on a soft pink hue, turning it into the most noticeable feature of the otherwise monochrome landscape. The zypher whispers to him, but he can't understand the words. Thankfully, the words themselves are of little importance; he already knows what they _mean_.

"Carla," the name is said with no small amount of relief.

A harder gust kicks up and causes the scar over the metal plates in his head to tingle from the unfamiliar sensation of air brushing over his scalp. The same runes he'd etched into the plates flash into being around him before disappearing as quickly as they had appeared in the first place. While it might have been comforting if the runes had lingered for a bit longer, it doesn't matter; they've done their work. Ford now has an escape and he doesn't hesitate to use it even as Bill rages behind him.

* * *

Ford wakes with a sharp intake of breath.


	20. Wake Up Call

"...no..."

Carla freezes mid-sentence.

"...No!"

"Shi--" the woman cuts herself off before she can finish the word, "Ford!" Carla scrambles out of Stanley's lap without any further explanation, slipping out of strong arms and past large wings. She nearly falls in her haste to get to the bed, pink-and-purple-clad feet sliding over wood floors with too-little traction.

Stanford is curled in on himself, tense with hands fisted into the blanket beneath him and a terrified expression on his face. The man shudders in his sleep and another quiet, desperate cry escapes him, "No!"

The demon's come to play and she'd left him _alone_. Carla lets air hiss through her teeth instead of releasing a few choice epithets.

Carla crawls back into the bed, behind Stanford this time. She runs her hands over his hair, pulling it back from his sweaty face. "It's alright. It's okay," she falls easily into the repetition of the mindless reassurances, "Just a dream. Only a dream. It's not real. He can't hurt you. Calm down. You're safe, Stanford. You're safe." The man in her arms relaxes -- marginally.

Carla strangles a frustrated sigh before it can escape her -- It's a bad one. She's not going to be able to coax Ford back into a restful sleep. She'll have to wake him instead. -- and makes sure she's tucked out of the way of any potential limb-flailing. She buries her fingers in his hair just above his ears. It's the work of a mere second to find the familiar dip of scar tissue that stretches around the back of her brother-in-law's head. Ford's body goes slack with a small shiver as she runs her fingers along the scar.

Ley startles and demands, "The hell is --"

Stanford suddenly wakes and gasps for air like a man who has only barely escaped drowning. "Carla!" he cries when he can't find her in his immediate line of sight.

"Here! I'm here!" she says quickly. The last thing she needs is for him to start panicking worse than he already is. "Calm down! It's over!"

Ford twists to look at her over his shoulder and then pushes himself into a sitting position. She only wishes that she could say she's surprised when he immediately cups her face and checks her eyes before giving the rest of her a once-over. How well he can actually accomplish that task between a dark room and his own nearsightedness is debatable, but it doesn't stop him from trying. Bill must have threatened her again.

"Stanford," she says softly. His eyes snap back to focus on her face, pupils blown wide. Carla carefully wraps her hands around his wrists and gives them a light squeeze. "I'm fine. You're awake now. It's over," she makes sure to speak clearly and calmly, "He can't hurt you anymore, and he can't use you to hurt anyone else, either. You're _safe_."

It takes a few seconds before Stanford decides to trust her words, offering a tentative nod. Ford releases her face in favor of pulling her closer and hiding his own face against her shoulder with a shuddering breath, " _Safe_."

"Safe," Carla reinforces the word one more time, for good measure. She begins stroking Ford's hair again as she lets the shaking man cling to her. He'll calm soon enough. After that, well, that's when the real work will start.


	21. Wrong Side of the Bed

Stanley shifts at the side of the bed, feeling awkward as he watches his twin shake like a leaf. Carla sends him an apologetic glance over Ford's shoulder.

To hell with it. Ford can hate him for intruding on his space later.

Stan jumps onto the bed.

It turns out to be a bad idea. ~~But what else is new?~~

The wooden bed frame groans ominously under the added weight for a moment and then fails. Carla squeaks and Stanford yelps as the footboard pops free and that side of the bed drops to the ground. Another warning creak of wood sounds in the split-second before the other side of the frame snaps as well. Stan's left hand slams into the headboard and pins it to the wall before it can fall on anyone.

Seconds of deafening quiet stretch on uncomfortably as the three of them remain frozen.

"Uh..." Stan tries as the silence starts to get to him, meeting Carla's shocked, wide-eyed stare with a sheepish attempt at a smile, "Oops?"

A look of trepidation crosses her face for an instant before being replaced by one of resignation, but it isn't Carla that speaks next.

"Unbelievable," Ford whispers. The man finally raises his head, if only to send a scathing look Stan's way, and his voice raises quickly as he continues, "Are you physically _incapable_ of --"

"Don't."

Stanford freezes and his words halt immediately.

"I already know where this is going and -- Just don't, Stanford. Let this one go," Carla pleads tiredly as she rests her forehead on the man's shoulder. "We'll talk to Dan about replacing it. It's not a big thing."

"Fine," Ford hisses, "Fine, take his side. It's not like I expe--"

" _Stanford._ "

The man bites off the rest of his words for a second time.

Carla pulls away and Ford releases her stiffly. The woman grabs his shoulders and says, "It's a _bed frame_. Do you really want to waste energy arguing over it?"

The scientist glances at the looming gargoyle and the two twins glare at each other before Ford looks away again. "No," he answers around a clenched jaw.

"Good," Carla says. She gives the man a once over. "Now, how are you feeling?"

Ford's face softens from a brooding scowl into a more thoughtful frown. "Still tired, but better," he runs a hand through his hair as he speaks, "Functional, at least."

Carla purses her lips in consideration for a moment and then asks, "I'm not going to be able to convince you to try sleeping more, am I?"

" _No._ " Ford shudders.

She sighs. "I thought as much." Carla looks over at the nightstand and Stan follows her line of sight to the clock resting on it.

It's just after three in the morning. Yeesh, that's early.

"In that case," Carla retrieves Ford's glasses and hands them to their owner, "shower, shave, and fresh clothes. I need 'respectable genius,' and not 'mad scientist,' today. There will be coffee ready by the time you're finished."

The promise of coffee seems to improve his twin's mood somewhat. "Alright, I'm going," Ford says around a sudden yawn. He leaves the room without so much as glancing Stan's way.

Stan watches him go. A few seconds later he hears a door close and the protests of pipes.

He looks back at Carla when his peripheral vision catches movement.

The woman grabs the sole pillow on the bed and covers her face with it. A muffled noise -- one half groan, one half scream, _all_ frustration -- escapes the fluffed rectangle.

That about sums it up, doesn't it? Everything (or at least a good chunk of everything) that Stan's been feeling for the past several hours about Ford and that stupid, decade-long grudge all condensed into a single, wordless sound. He may need to take a turn with that pillow after Carla's done.

Carla pulls the pillow away from her face and stares at the ceiling.

"Feeling any better?" Stan asks.

"Not really," she admits. She looks at him as she says seriously, "I can already tell he's going to keep trying to pick fights with you for _days_ , even though it's an incredibly stupid thing for him to do."

Stan scowls. "The only reason I didn't deck him a minute ago was because I didn't want to risk hitting you, too. If he keeps pushing, I'm gonna give him what he wants," he warns darkly.

The woman groans and scrubs her face with her hands. "You _can't_ do that, Ley."

"He'd deserve it," the gargoyle argues.

Carla surprises him when she says, "I know."

"So why..."

"I remember how we met, Knucklehead, and I've seen you box," she says plainly, "I've lost track of how many teeth I've watched you knock out of different punk's heads. If you take a swing at Ford now," Carla gestures at the hand he's still using to keep the headboard upright, "you'll probably break his jaw. ...If you don't outright kill him."

Stan recoils, "What? I wouldn't --" and takes another look at his hand, realizing for the first time that he hadn't kept his hand flat when he'd hit the wood. There's a broken ring of splinters around his hand and the wood bows inward under his palm. He can't see his fingers past the second knuckle with how they're buried in the wood. Stan works his fingers free while holding the headboard steady with his other hand. He peeks through the holes left in the furniture only to spy three small puncture marks in the wall beyond, as well.

The headboard isn't made from cheap or rotted wood like what he used to find on the shore and his new claws aren't sharp. Pointed and hard, yes, but not sharp. It would take a lot of force to put them through nearly three inches of wood the way he had. And he'd done it without thought or intention.

"Holy cow," Stan breathes, stomach twisting at the implications.

"Mm," Carla hums in agreement as she sits up again, "The town has a clinic, but the nearest hospital is about half an hour away. When the roads are clear." Stan looks back at her uneasily. Carla attempts a reassuring smile for him, though her expression is tinged with a weariness he doesn't like. "Just do your best to keep your temper in check. I'll run interference where I can. Everything will be fine."

"Right," Stan says, trying desperately to suppress the new fears plaguing him. Carla slips around him and he puts the heavy headboard down once she's out of the way. He needs something else to focus on. "What was that stuff around Ford's head? It was only there for a couple seconds, but..." Carla is staring at him.

"What 'stuff'?" she asks.

"You know," he makes a vague gesture around his own head, "the, the glowing symbols and stuff that showed up over Poindexter's head before he woke up."

"You _saw_ that?"

"Yes?" Please don't let this be yet another weird thing with just him.

Carla's head tilts to the side. "Huh." The woman digs under the collapsed footboard and pulls out the same little flashlight Ford had attacked him with when he first showed up at his brother's doorstep. "I'm letting Ford handle this one," she announces, "It's more stuff related to Bill and he can explain it all better than I can." Carla starts walking toward the door. She looks at him over her shoulder and says, "C'mon, Knucklehead. I promised your brother coffee. He's about five times more sociable after he's had his java, anyway."

"Yeah, okay," he agrees. Stan spares the five holes he'd punched through the headboard one final glance and then follows after Carla.


	22. Coordination, or the Lack Thereof

Stan crouches at the top of the staircase and glares down the steps as he waits for Carla to come back from the kitchen. Admitting his earlier attempt and less than stellar results at going down stairs had been embarrassing, but it had been better than the alternative of repeating the experience with an audience.

The gargoyle listens to Carla's quick, sure footfalls as she races around the kitchen on the ground floor. The sound of the sink being turned on reaches his ears a second before a yelp comes from the bathroom behind him. The water stops flowing in the direction of the kitchen. The event is closely followed by a distinctly human hiss.

Stan smirks. Serves Ford right for being such a grouch this morning.

The creak of hinges. Carla's fast paced tour of the kitchen comes to an abrupt stop. "Really, Ford?" A sigh, more footsteps as she resumes her task. "No one should have access to this much industrial-strength coffee. ...No one should be drinking this sludge, for that matter..." A couple of clicks. Buttons being depressed, he thinks, probably on a coffee maker. That would be the entire reason she'd rushed off without him, after all. "Now, where did you... Ah-ha!" The flutter of papers. A scoff. "I can't even say I'm surprised. _Of course_ the coffee pot is the only thing left in my kitchen not sporting a layer of dust. ...Though as for how long it's been since you last washed it... Ew." Back to the sink.

Stanford yelps and grumbles before the sound of falling water in the bathroom is cut off. "I'm going to catch it for not keeping up with the dishes. That has to be why she keeps using the water." A pause. "...When _was_ the last time I washed any dishes? Surely, it can't have been longer than a... Actually, have I done any since she left? Hmm..."

Stan closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. Carla's right, his brother needs a babysitter. Or a maid. Maybe both.

The sound of the fridge opening, closing. More footsteps, moving closer this time.

He reopens his eyes just in time to watch as Carla rounds the corner and begins to climb the staircase in front of him.

"Okay, got a fresh brew going for Stanford," she says as she makes it to the landing, "Now, you said you were still having trouble with the stairs?"

Stanley grunts as he stands up. "The whole 'don't think about it, trust your instincts' thing works okay for going up. Going down turned out to be a different story."

"Alright, but what did you actually _do_ , Ley?"

His face scrunches up. "Tried to fly, I think."

"Glide," the woman corrects. When Stan doesn't continue in favor of staring at her, Carla shrugs and elaborates as a light flush takes over her cheeks, "I doubt you're capable of _flying_. Those wings look better suited for gliding, and they'd probably need to be bigger in order to accommodate your body mass and achieve true flight. Also, your shoulders would be in the way."

Stan rolls his eyes. He's pretty sure Ford's book had made that same distinction. Nerds. The both of them. " _Anyway_ , the wings hit the walls and, next thing I know, I'm in a heap on the ground."

Carla nods slowly as she eyes him up and down. The attention would be more flattering if she didn't have her problem-solving face on.

"Alright!" she declares suddenly, grabbing Stan's hands and pulling him along, "This is what we're doing." She guides one of his hands to the rail before grabbing hold of the support herself and sets his other hand on her shoulder. "Eyes on me," she directs as she begins to descend the steps backwards.

"Carla, this is a bad idea," he warns even as he feels her other hand settle just above his hip, encouraging him to move with her. He takes a reluctant step forward, now standing at the very edge of the landing. "I'm going to fall and crush you."

Carla smiles at him. "Trust me. We'll go slow."

True to her words, they inch their way down the steps one at a time. Stan tentatively finds each level with newly-clawed toes (no doubt leaving noticeable scratches in the wood as he goes) as he keeps his gaze locked on Carla's face.

They make it a full five steps before Stan's wings begin misbehaving. Again.

"Hold up," Carla says and Stan wobbles in an awkwardly balanced perch. The woman leans to the side as she peers over his shoulder, eyes tracking angles and twitchy movements as Stanley struggles to remain on his feet. The woman rolls her eyes (which does nothing to help him) and something resembling an amused smirk takes over her expression. "Stop slouching, Knucklehead," she admonishes, taking her hand off the rail long enough push against his chest until he is standing up straight.

And, just like that, Stan's wings fold neatly behind his back and his tail -- less chaotic than his wings but still troublesome -- swings sedately near his feet. Balance successfully restored.

The gargoyle tries to crane his neck well enough to see his own back. "Okay," Stan says, surprise clear in his tone, " _how_ did you do that?"

A quiet snort escapes the woman and he turns to find her fighting off laughter. (The mirth dancing in her eyes and the slight quivering at the edges of her mouth are dead giveaways.) Carla only shakes her head with a smile. A light tug at his waist has him moving again, carefully maintaining better posture than he can remember ever bothering with in his entire life up to this point.

"Alright. Seriously, Carla, how did you do that?" Stanley asks again once they are safely on the ground floor.

Carla's face twitches before she finally loses the battle and falls into a fit of giggles. Her arms wrap around his neck and she buries her face in what's left of his jacket.

He doesn't mind that she's laughing at him, not really, except... "C'mon, Carla, this is important," he grumbles, "I don't want to be stuck between taking a chance of falling flat on my face or waiting for you to escort me every time I need to use the stairs!"

"I'm sorry," Carla gasps, "I know I shouldn't laugh." And yet, more laughter. "It's just so obvious! I can't believe you haven't figured it out, yet!"

"Yeah, well, I've never been the brains of the outfit," Stan mutters. He knows he's said the wrong thing when guilt immediately begins pouring through the tether.

Carla looks up at him with wide, blue eyes. "Ley, I didn't mean --"

Stan shakes his head, buries his nose in Carla's hair, and wraps his arms around her. "I know. I'm not angry," he assures, "Just... Explain what's 'so obvious' to me?" The guilt leaking through the tether doesn't disappear so much as it gets forcibly shoved to the side and repressed. It itches at the back of his mind like something he's half-forgotten.

Carla sighs. "Right. Okay." She bites her lip as she thinks for a second. "So, balance is a pretty instinctive thing, right? And you know how when someone loses their balance, before they tip over completely, their arms will flail or pinwheel and sometimes it will be enough to keep them from falling?" Stan nods along. "Well, your wings are trying to do the same thing. Except you're not used to _having_ wings, so you're leaning over even _further_ and it spirals from there."

"Oh, for -- Seriously?" Stan demands.

Carla shrugs without letting go of him. "You're overcorrecting. They're still limbs, Stanley. They'll react to the rest of you. You just need to stop fighting them. Trust your body. ...And maybe don't slouch so much."

Stan groans and rests his forehead against hers. "Well, I feel stupid now."

"It's probably easier to see from the outside," she offers.

"Still..."

"I'm sorry I laughed, Ley."

Stan grunts and pulls away. "It's alright. I probably looked pretty ridiculous."

A tentative smile makes its way onto the woman's face. "Just a little."

The gargoyle allows himself a chuckle. "Liar. You don't crack up like that over 'just a little' ridiculous."

Carla's smile becomes a bit surer at his returned humor. "I might or might not be understating your level of ridiculousness."

"Uh-huh," Stan says before pressing a kiss to her brow. The way she beams up at him afterward draws an answering smile out of him.

"C'mon, Knucklehead," Carla says as she grabs his hand, "The sooner I get started on breakfast, the sooner we can eat."

" _Food_ ," he groans, suddenly aware of how _hungry_ he is. Breakfast sounds fantastic.

"Yes," Carla agrees with a giggle, "food."


	23. Dragons

The table is still covered in the dishes from last night's dinner and Stan finds himself staring at Carla's half-eaten plate. Cold, greasy, and utterly appetizing. He's pretty sure it shouldn't be.

"Really, Stanley?" Carla asks, having followed his line-of-sight. Her little nose wrinkles. "I'm about to make breakfast. It won't take that long."

"I'm hungry!" he defends, "Besides, I've eaten worse." Oh, that might not have had the effect he'd meant it to have.

The woman looks back at him, a pinched expression on her features. "Can I at least talk you into opening a fresh can of meat, rather than something that's been sitting out for hours and could make you sick?"

"Yeah, I guess," he agrees. Good bye, eggs. Good bye, cheese.

She sighs in relief and darts over to one of the cupboards to retrieve a can of The Brown Meat. Carla sets it down on the table and turns the nearest chair around. The woman pats the backrest of the chair in a silent invitation before beginning to clear the plates from the table.

As soon as he settles in the reversed seat, Stan can't believe he didn't think of turning his chair around sooner. Simply having _room_ for his wings and tail make this arrangement a thousand times more comfortable than any he'd tried last night.

A can opener appears in front of him as Carla breezes past. "Thanks," Stan grunts as he reaches for the contraption, receiving an absent-minded hum in response. It's only once he actually has it in hand and tries to use the thing that Stan notices it's been modified.

The gargoyle stares at the altered gizmo. It's obviously Ford's handiwork, but what exactly his brother has done and why he thought he it was a good idea is beyond Stan. Working a can opener should not be a complicated process. What on Earth has Ford done to this thing?

Stanley spends a few more seconds trying to figure out what all of his twin's tinkering is supposed to accomplish and how to operate it before giving the can opener up as a lost cause. He could ask Carla, she wouldn't have given it to him if it wasn't at least _usable_ , but he's getting tired of needing help for every little thing. (Plus, she's promised more food and he's starving. One little can of meat is not going to satisfy the gnawing in his stomach.)

Stan taps a claw against the side of the can in contemplation, and then taps it again with a little more force as an idea occurs to him. A noticeable dent forms in the metal. Stan grins. He sinks his claws into the side of the container near the top and _pulls_. The thin metal tears, leaving jagged edges where he'd punched his fingers through but a surprisingly neat line on the other side where the folded metal of the lip had controlled the path of the separation.

 _'Kinda messy,'_ he thinks as he licks spilt juice off his fingers, _'but it works.'_

Carla is staring at him.

"What?"

The woman shakes her head. "Nothing," she says, returning to her previous task of attempting to clean the kitchen well enough to cook comfortably in, "You could have asked for help is all. I'd forgotten that Stanford had changed the can opener."

A sure sign of spending too much time around Ford: his experiments starts to seem normal.

Carla opens a drawer and the next thing Stan knows there's a spoon tapping pointedly against his can of meat. Her expression is faintly amused but her eyes are serious. "You're going to drive Ford nuts, eating like that," she tells him, "and you need to get used to setting an example for Jason. I'd like our son to grow up with decent table manners."

Stan sheepishly pulls the can away from his mouth and accepts the spoon. Right. Table manners. He hasn't needed those in a while. Hasn't had a table to practice them at in a while. ~~Hasn't had anyone he cared about not offending with his lack of manners in a while.~~

But Carla's statement brings up a question he hadn't thought ~~dared~~ to ask earlier. He barely remembers to swallow his current mouthful before asking, "Where _is_ Jason?"

She stares at him for a solid three seconds, a surprised expression frozen on her face. "Oh, for the love of --" Carla slaps her forehead and groans as she drags the hand down her face. "I completely skipped over that, didn't I?" she asks but doesn't wait for an answer, "Jason is fine. Safe. He's with a friend of mine in town. Her name is Susan. She'll be here to drop off Jason around eight. You know, at a reasonable time in the morning, as opposed to now." Carla's brow furrows and places a hand on her chin before mumbling to herself, "Which means we have five hours to make the house baby-proof again. That's not enough time for all of it."

"Oh." Stan shifts in the seat and pokes at the meat still in the can with his spoon. It will be _hours_ before he'll be able to see his son. He can't decide if he's disappointed or relieved by the news. "He won't -- You don't think he'll be afraid of me, do you?"

Carla's face scrunches up in confusion. "Why on Earth would he be afraid of you?"

Stan sputters. "Carla, are you not _seeing_ this?" he demands, making a vague gesture at his own face.

Carla squints at him like he's the one behaving strangely. "You're worried about the gargoyle thing, aren't you?"

"Yes, Hotpants!" he exclaims, throwing his hands up over his head, "I'm worried about the 'gargoyle thing'!"

Bits of meat rain down on the table, floor, and several nearby stacks of paper. Carla spares the mess a slight frown before returning her attention to him. "Okay," she says with a shrug, "Why?"

"Why? _Why?_ This isn't exactly normal, Carla! This is about as far from normal as you can get! I don't know what Jason's expecting from his," the words try to stick in his throat, "his dad, but it can't be _this_!"

"Pfft. Normal." The woman waves a dismissive hand and goes back to her cleaning. Carla fishes a plate out of a stack of papers and places it in the sink with the others she's unearthed from Ford's research. "I thought we went over this earlier. There is no 'normal'," she makes air quotes with one hand even as she hooks the fingers of the other around the handles of a pair of coffee mugs, "in Gravity Falls. Give it a week and you'll understand what I mean."

The sink is full by this point. Carla redirects her efforts toward clearing the counter next to it, combining stacks of paper together until they reach precarious heights. "As for Jason's 'expectations,' he's _three_." She raises her eyebrows as she looks over her shoulder at him. The woman gestures above her head with one hand as she says, "You could be a twenty-foot-tall, fire-breathing dragon, and it wouldn't matter to him because you're his daddy." Carla cocks her head to the side as a thought comes to her. "Or, actually... No, I take that back," a fond, if somewhat exasperated, look covers her features as she corrects herself, "It would absolutely matter to him. Being a twenty-foot-tall, fire-breathing dragon would probably be enough to instantly make you Jason's favorite thing ever. Anyway, he won't be afraid of you."

Stanley looks away and shoves another spoonful in his mouth as he tries to force his insecurities back into the easily ignored box they belong in. They seem to have multiplied over the last handful of hours and no longer want to fit. He needs a distraction.

"...Jason likes dragons?"

The woman snorts. "What little boy doesn't like dragons?" Carla settles into the chair nearest him, apparently finished with attempting to clean the kitchen, for the time being. She props an elbow on the tabletop and rests her head on her hand. Grinning at him, she says, "Of course, most boys his age would probably try to _slay_ the dragon. Jason's more likely to try pelting it with questions than stones."

Stan snickers. "Sounds like someone else we know."

"It should. Where do you think he picks it up from?" A pause. "Remind me to tell Ford to add anything that breathes fire to the list of things he isn't allowed to bring home with him. Wooden cabin and all."

Stan feels his brows climbing his forehead. "Are there actually dragons around here?"

Carla shrugs. "Maybe?" she returns, "I don't think Ford's come across any just yet, but I wouldn't rule it out." The woman leans back in her chair and peers around his shoulder, drawing his attention to the fact that his brother has finally shown up. "What do you think, Poindexter?" Carla asks, "What are the odds of there being dragons in the woods?"

Stanford's face takes on a thoughtful expression. "My first thought is that I'd have likely encountered them by now if there were," he begins, "but there's always the chance real dragons are different from the legends I'm basing my expectations on. There could be any number of reasons that they could have remained undetected by humanity this long."

"Mm," Carla hums in answer as she rises from her chair. She crosses to the fridge and pulls a coffee mug out from its depths before passing it into Ford's waiting hands.

" _Coffee_ ," Ford half-moans. The man wastes no time in draining his cup, gulping down the contents without surfacing for air. He sighs happily into the emptied vessel. "You're _amazing_ ," he states before kissing her cheek.

"Uh-huh. You're just saying that because I made your latest fix of caffeine," she dismisses.

"No. That's also the best I've slept in weeks," he admits quietly, "It's good to have you home."

Carla offers him a soft smile in return. "It's good to _be_ home."

Ford and Carla both suddenly look over at Stan and it's only then he realizes that he's growling. He also decides in that moment that he doesn't care about the not-very-human aspects of his reaction. Ford's too close and Carla's letting him. Again. They're too familiar ~~too intimate~~ with each other and he doesn't like it one bit. (Part of him recognizes that once upon a time in Jersey, he wouldn't have had a problem with it. Back when he knew where they all stood, this wouldn't have even registered as anything to be upset over. But that was before he'd been abandoned, his heart ripped out and his life shattered, twice. He can't pretend that their behavior doesn't bother him _now_ , so he tells that little part of himself to shut the hell up.)

Stanford scowls at him from behind Carla, jaw set at a stubborn angle. He takes a half-step nearer still and rests a hand on the small of the woman's back.

Oh, that _is it_! Twin or no, he's going to tear Ford's damn arm off!

Dimly, he's aware of how his growl increases in volume. He's half-risen out of his seat when a spike of alarm blares through the tether and suddenly Carla is in motion.

She spins out of Ford's reach, grabs the coffee pot from its place on the counter, and puts it down on the table inside a rough circle of discolored wood. "Sit down, Stanford," Carla instructions, "It's not any easier to work with you hovering at my shoulder than it is with Stanley there."

Ford's expression flickers through surprise, realization, embarrassment, something that might be shame or at least regret, before settling into an awkward sort of acceptance. "Right. Of course." He spares Stan a glance, cheeks tinted a light pink, and obediently follows Carla's directions, claiming the seat on the opposite side of the table from his twin.

Stanley, likewise, settles back into his own chair. He'll let this incident slide, for now, but he isn't about to forget about it, either.

"And I'm not even going to ask when you last did the dishes," Carla says pointedly.

Stanford's flush darkens by a shade or two as he admits, "That's probably for the best."

Carla only hums in acknowledgement.


	24. Dealing with a Triangular Menace

Ford clears his throat awkwardly and reaches for the coffee pot. Whether he does it to satisfy his apparent caffeine addiction or simply to have something to do with his hands, Stanley can't say.

"Now," Carla slips the little flashlight she'd taken earlier out of the back pocket of her jeans, "is this what you saw?" She turns the device on and points it at the side of Ford's head, revealing a series of strange, glowing symbols.

"That's it!" Stan exclaims, pointing at the floating gobbledygook revealed by the beam of light. He squints and asks, "What _is_ all that?"

Ford startles, nearly spilling still hot coffee over the table as he rears back. "Stanley!" he snaps as he irritably pushes his brother's hand away from his face.

Stan pulls his hand back and shrugs. "Sorry." He's not.

Ford glares at him before Carla sets the extinguished flashlight on the table, drawing his attention to it. "Wait, _you_ stole my flashlight? I thought it was --" the scientist clears his throat again and doesn't finish the sentence. It doesn't matter. They all know how it would have ended. Stanford looks away and takes a sip from his newly-poured, second cup of coffee.

Stanley huffs, slumps in his chair, and crosses his arms over the backrest. Figures. Ford seems hell-bent on blaming him for every little thing. Not that he's above petty theft, of course, but it still stings to know his twin thinks so little of him.

"Yes, I did," Carla says calmly, resting a hip against the table as she blatantly watches Ford.

Social blunderer though Stanford may be, even he can tell when he's the subject of an expectant stare. "W-what?" he asks cautiously.

Carla sighs and carefully confiscates Ford's coffee. The man makes a small noise of protest but allows the mug to be pulled from his grasp. "Stanley saw the wards earlier. Without the flashlight."

Ford pauses. "I... suppose that would make sense," he says slowly, "It _is_ protective magic. Gargoyles have a limited affinity for it. When was this?"

Stan shrugs moodily. "When you woke up," he grumbles.

"Ah, it was probably the spike in power that brought them to your attention, then." Ford looks pointedly at his appropriated mug.

Carla just as pointedly drags the cup a little further away and rolls her eyes. "Don't you think you ought to explain a bit more than that? Like why you need them to begin with?"

"No!" Ford flushes, embarrassed by his outburst. The scientist clears his throat. "I don't think that will be necessary." He seems to shrink in on himself, hands fisting in his trenchcoat as he pulls it tighter around himself.

Stan shifts in his chair. He wants to punch whatever it is that's made Ford look so damn vulnerable. And on the other hand, he wants to strangle his cagey twin himself because he's getting real tired of the emotional whiplash Ford is managing to stir up in him. Why can't things ever be simple? He shoves the last bite of brown meat into his mouth and pushes the emptied can aside.

"Ford, you need to tell Ley about Bill."

"I don't see why. I doubt it's even possible for Stan to --"

"Stanford." Carla scowls in frustration. "He _needs_ to _know_. If you're not going to tell him, I will, but I think we both know it should be you."

There's a long, drawn out pause before Ford sighs, "Alright."

"Thank you," Carla says. Her shoulders relax and tension Stanley hadn't even noticed before leaves her frame. (Did the tether decide to turn itself off or something? He'd thought he'd had this part figured out, at least. ~~So much for that.~~ )

Ford reaches out to reclaim his coffee cup and Carla lets him. The man doesn't drink. He nervously trails his fingertips over the warmed ceramic instead and watches the steam rising from the dark liquid in it.

"Bill is an extra-dimensional being I met five -- almost six -- years ago. His primary means of communication with those in this dimension is through their dreams and the Mindscape. At first, I thought he was benevolent. Suffice it to say, he wasn't." Ford's hands tighten around the coffee mug. "I realized Bill's treachery too late to prevent things that I will likely regret for the rest of my life, but soon enough to prevent Bill's ultimate goal of gaining direct access to our dimension.

"There's more to the story than I'm willing to get into now, but the reason for the wards is to keep Bill out of my head. They work best when I'm awake and aware enough to focus on them should Bill attempt something. They aren't quite as effective while I'm sleeping, and Bill seems intent on popping in periodically to _chat_ , but that's the extent of his abilities through the wards. Well, and the nightmares." Ford's mouth twists unhappily and he takes another sip from the mug in his hands.

Stanley waits until the mug is safely back on the table before speaking. "So, basically, you're telling me you're being harassed by a space alien that invades dreams."

"He's from another _dimension_ , Stan, not outer space!"

"Uh-huh," the gargoyle says, "And what exactly is it the wards do, again?"

"They keep Bill out."

"Sounds to me like he's still getting into your head."

"Only while I'm asleep, and I'm no more susceptible to him than anyone else."

The gargoyle pauses. "Ford," he says slowly, already sure the answer won't make him happy, "why do you need special wards to be 'no more susceptible' than everyone else already is without any magical gobbledygook?"

His twin actually flinches. "I told you, when you first arrived, that I'd made mistakes," Stanford stares into the dark liquid in his still half-full mug, "The greatest of those was ever trusting Bill Cipher." The man pauses to take a breath before quietly stating, "He has a penchant for 'deal-making,' though I've begun to suspect that all he really needs is _permission_. Upholding his own end of things seems to be... inconsequential to his ability to enforce the other side. I made a deal with him to help advance my research -- and he _did_ \-- but in return I agreed to allow him to _borrow_ by body as needed. I didn't realize until later that 'as needed' was up to Bill's discretion, rather than my own. That's what the wards are for."

Stan stares at his brother. "Are you telling me that you get regularly _possessed_ by a space alien?"

"I _used_ to have a possession problem with an _extradimensional being_ , yes. Now I mostly worry about him finding another unwitting soul to trick into becoming his new puppet so he can continue his plans." Stanford's gaze falls to rest on the flashlight before jumping up to Carla and just as quickly returning to the device on the table. His fingers drum rapidly against the ceramic vessel in his hands, the motion just slightly arrhythmic.

His actions do not go unnoticed.

Carla sighs and asks, "Again?"

"I -- No. No, it's alright. I know I'm being --"

The woman groans. "Just do it, Stanford," Carla says, "You'll be twitchy all day if you don't."

Ford hesitates for a half-second before snatching up the flashlight. "Thank you."

"Hrm," comes her half-hearted acknowledgement as she scooches her chair closer to the scientist so he doesn't need to lean so far over the table to reach her.

"You do this to everyone who comes to see you, now?" Stan grumbles as Ford checks Carla's eyes.

"It's the easiest way to test for Bill's influence," Ford answers distractedly. The woman's eyes change from familiar blue to a vibrant yellow. The foreign color practically burns in its intensity. The man's lips press into a hard line of displeasure. "He _did_ visit you last night."

Carla grimaces and Ford switches off the beam. She rubs at her irritated eyes and blinks repeatedly. "We knew he would."

"I'd been hoping he'd decided not to bother," Ford scowls into his coffee before taking another sip, "Though with how focussed he was on you, I suppose it was a foolish hope. Actually, he was strangely keen on calling your character into question last night. That's... not his usual method of attack." His eyebrows dip into a light, puzzled frown before he looks back up at the woman. "Did something happen between you two?"

Carla clears her throat and twists a lock of her hair around a finger. "Well, I, uh, I might have lost my temper a bit and there, um, may have been a harpoon involved." A stubborn look steals over her face after a moment of silence. "I don't regret it, though. He deserved it."

Ford stares at her. "You -- A harpoon? You tried to use a _harpoon_ against Bill?" a pause before he changes tacks, "Did it work?"

"It would have been hard to miss at that range," she answers wryly.

Ford takes a moment to process that and asks, "Through the eye?"

Carla shrugs. "What else would I aim for? His top hat?"

"You speared Bill Cipher through the eye with a harpoon." Ford takes a long draw from his cup as he thinks it over, tipping it back to drain the last of the bitter drink. What starts as an upward curl at the corner of his mouth soon becomes a full-fledged and irrepressible grin at the thought. He only wishes he had a picture. As it is, he's fairly certain the idea alone has put him in a better mood than he's had in months.

Ford reaches for the pot and pours himself a third cup of coffee. It's going to be a good day.


	25. The Worry and Wait Game

Breakfast turns out to be oatmeal. Which, normally, Stan wouldn't mind after pouring enough of _some_ kind of sugar into it, but his new tongue finds it even more bland and boring than oatmeal usually is; so, that's a bit of a disappointment after the meat. Still, it works to beat back the twisting hunger in his gut and it's hard to fall into another argument while everyone's mouths are full. Stan's willing to take what he can get. Unfortunately, a peace brought about by food can only last for so long.

"When is Susan supposed to be here with Ja--" Ford pauses mid-sentence, hazel eyes darting between Stan and Carla before settling on the woman. The scientist straightens in his chair and asks, "Have you told him about Jason, yet?"

"He knows," Carla assures him. There's a wry quirk to her lips as she says the words, but there's no denying that her expression also holds an underlying satisfaction. "And Jason, Susan, and Henry will be here at eight."

"Oh, good," Ford relaxes some and begins picking at his breakfast again.

Stan's attention catches on two separate things at once, but he decides to ask about the one that isn't all-but-guaranteed to start another fight. "Who's Henry?"

"The local sheriff, Henry Michaels," Carla answers absently, scraping her bowl clean and shoving the last spoonful of her breakfast into her mouth.

"There's gonna be cops?" Stan demands, half-panicked. He regrets saying anything immediately.

Carla freezes in the middle of carrying her dish and spoon to the sink before slowly turning around to stare at him through narrowed eyes. Ford pinches the bridge of his nose and Stanley gulps. The look on his wife's face does not bode well for him. "One cop, singular," the woman corrects, "Why? What trouble have you gotten yourself into, Stanley Pines?"

"None!" That's a lie, of course, and they all know it.

If it weren't for the ridiculously good hearing being a gargoyle evidently gives him, he would have missed Ford muttering, "Idiot."

Stan scowls at the man. It's a mistake.

Carla's gaze swings to find what he's refocused on. "Stanford Pines," she hisses and the twin in question jumps in surprise, "you look almost as guilty as your brother. What do you know?"

"I --" Ford stammers, "I'd rather not get in the middle of this." Carla continues to glare at him and the man squirms in his seat like a child.

If Stanley doesn't speak up now, he can already tell that his twin is going to crack like one of last night's eggs. He has no idea how much Stanford actually knows, but he's willing to bet it's more than enough to set Carla off. Better to attempt damage control himself than to leave it to Ford's fumbling.

"Okay, I may have done something," he admits. Angry blue eyes seer into him. "Alright, alright! A few somethings!" he corrects, "Nothing major!" In the United States. ~~As for the Columbia thing, well, he doesn't see a need to bring up something that had happened in another country.~~ "A couple thefts here and there." There was more than just stealing on his rap sheet, but that made up the bulk of it. "It's not like I _hurt_ anyone!" Well, no one _innocent_ , anyway. ~~He wasn't about to start counting what may or may not have happened during drunk, seedy bar fights, or anything he'd had to do to escape any creeps that had been trying to do him in.~~ "Look, there's nothing big enough for anyone to bother tracking me all the way to Oregon for!"

Carla's face twitches. The woman spins on her heel and turns on the sink's taps. "That's not the point, Ley," she says tersely.

Great, now his brother is glaring at him instead of his wife.

'Apologize, Knucklehead!' Stanford mouths, tipping his head toward Carla's back.

Stan rolls his eyes, not that Ford will be able to tell. The gargoyle hops off his chair and approaches the woman. "Listen, Carla, I --"

"Not now, Ley," she says flatly, starting in on the dishes with more aggression than the task strictly calls for.

"W-what?" he asks, hand falling back to his side before he can touch her. He can feel the tether trying to give him some sort of feedback but it's muffled and too indistinct to make out.

"We'll talk later, just --" Carla throws aside the sponge, rinses out the bowl she'd been scrubbing, and sets it aside to dry with an audible ' _clack_ ' and a heavy sigh, "Give me a little while." The woman shakes her head and picks up the soapy sponge. "We have a lot to get done. Stanford, see what you can do about clearing out the front room, main hall, living room, kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. I don't care if all you do is shove everything into your super secret basement, but I don't want anything dangerous left where Jason could find it. Stanley can help you."

"R-right," Ford glances Stan's way worriedly. Good to know he's not alone in his concerns, at least. "We'll get on that," Ford hesitates, "What will you be doing?"

Carla gives a jerky shrug and another dish finds its way to the drying rack. "Dishes, laundry, I'm going to have to see if I can't alter at least some of Ley's clothes so they'll fit."

Stan self-consciously fingers the hem of his ruined shirt. He hasn't changed since the mess in the basement took place, but it suddenly occurs to him that none of his clothes were made to accommodate a tail or wings.

Ford catches Stan's arm at the elbow and gives it a gentle tug. "C'mon," he says softly, guiding his twin from the room.

"But..."

"Give her space," Stanford instructs.

The gargoyle allows himself to be lead all the way to the front room of the cabin. "What was _that_?" he asks helplessly as Ford immediately begins gathering strange bits and bobs and passing them into Stan's arms.

The scientist doesn't pause as he collects yet more items Stan can't identify and adds them to the growing pile. "You're going to have to specify what you're asking about," he states, fiddling with a small device for a moment. It releases a short whine like its power has been cut and then gets set on top of the odd collection the gargoyle is holding.

"Carla," he answers with a glance back the way they just came from, "she shut me down. She doesn't _do_ that! She might not forgive me right off the bat, but she always at least lets me explain!"

Ford gives him a look he has a hard time deciphering before shaking his head. The scientist places yet another strange gizmo in his twin's arms and turns away. "She's coping. She hasn't seen you in years and she spent that entire time worrying about you," Stanford states plainly. In a quieter voice he says, "And she wasn't the only one." The man combines at least three stacks of loose leaf papers together before picking up the precarious column. Ford doesn't let him have time to figure out how to respond to what he's said. "This way," the man directs, walking off in the direction Stan remembers the basement being.


	26. Cleaning Up

"Just set it down here," Stanford directs as he dumps his own load down next to the elevator, "We'll fill this room first. After that I'll need to start deciding what will go down to the second basement. We won't be able to use the third level, though. I need to keep it accessible."

Stanley drops the assortment of clutter in his arms next to the pile of Ford's papers as instructed but the crumpled edges of the elevator doors catch his attention. "Hey, Ford?" he nudges his twin's shoulder and Ford only bristles a little at the casual contact. "What happened there?" Stan gestures to indicate the damage, about a quarter of the door's height from the floor. Stanford glances over to confirm what he's talking about then settles a flat look on his brother. Or tries to, anyway. Stan's pretty sure Ford is a more amused by the question than he wants to be.

"You did," Ford says simply.

" _I_ did?" he asks in disbelief.

"Hm," the scientist hums and continues by saying, "The doors aren't solid steel. What you did to the elevator's shaft is more impressive. I never got around to installing the ladder, so you made your own climbable surface. I didn't have time to make any in depth observations yesterday, but I'd guess you punched your claws through at least an inch or two of concrete for every hand and foothold. I'll have to get more accurate measurements later."

Stan stares at his brother. He doesn't know how to respond to learning that he'd literally clawed his way up an elevator shaft; he _does_ know how to respond to Ford's response to it. "You are such a nerd," he huffs and crosses his arms, "I'm not one of your science projects."

Ford arches his brows and says bluntly, "You happen to currently be a gargoyle, Stan. I'm a cryptozoologist. You are exactly the sort of thing I study."

Stan sputters. "I'm not actually a gargoyle!" he objects.

"Physically you are," his twin states with a shrug, "Judging from your recent actions, I'd say it's a complete transformation, including instincts; which presents me with a unique opportunity to parse instinctive and cultural drives behind behavior in gargoyles!" Ford actually looks _excited_ at the prospect.

The gargoyle levels a half-hearted glare at the scientist. "You're going to be unbearable, aren't you?" Stan says in a flat voice.

Ford opens his mouth to deny the accusation, hesitates, and finally offers, "Carla will probably keep me in check?" Stan stares at his twin for a moment before falling into a laughing fit. "What?"

Stanley wheezes and waves a hand at the puzzled man. "Just," he interrupts himself with a chuckle, "been a long time since I've heard you try to use Carla to distract from how much of a nerd you are."

Ford's face twitches through a few different expressions. Stan tries not to let the fact that he can't read any of them as easily as he once could bother him. He fails. Eventually, Ford sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair at a lower angle than he used to when they were teenagers. A faint glow appears around the scientist's head and Stan suddenly realizes that Ford is probably running his hands over the wards.

"So it has," Stanford acknowledges quietly.

Stan shifts uncomfortably. A small part of him wants to ask how much his brother knows about how he spent the twelve years they've been separated. A much larger part of him is scared to bring up both it and the incident directly preceding said separation. "C'mon, Poindexter," he says instead, "We've got a lot of junk to move."

* * *

Both twins pause in their work when Carla pops in to check on them. It has to have been at least a few hours since they started. So far they've managed to clear the front room, the hall, and they're nearly done with the living room, now. Stan can only hope their efforts will meet her approval.

"The dishes are back to a more practical level and the last of Stanley's, Jason's, and my clothes just came out of the drier," she announces to the room at large, but it's obvious she's focused on Ford, "I have a load of laundry going for you, now. I also went ahead and cleared the bedroom and bathroom, since I knew there wouldn't be much there. I left everything stacked at the bottom of the stairs." She glances away from his brother to look directly at him. "Do you think you can tackle the rest on your own, Ford? We only have about an hour left and I need to borrow Ley."

Ford does nothing to hide the fact that he's eyeing her carefully in an attempt to gauge her mood. Still, he doesn't hesitate in his answering nod and murmurs a simple, "Of course." Carla flashes the man a small smile as Stan hastily sets aside his newest armful of odd doodads and whatsits.

"What do you need me to do?" Stan asks as he follows Carla from the room. He's eager to work his way back into his wife's good graces but he's not sure what he'll have to do to get there.

Carla smirks at him over her shoulder. "Well, first you're going to have to stay still while I get measurements so I can alter some of your clothes." Stanley grimaces. He hasn't had to endure many fitting sessions over the years but they always take too long and are boring to boot. "And then you need a bath before we introduce you to Jason."

The gargoyle perks up at the last sentence. He's still an anxious bundle of nerves and mixed emotions at the thought of meeting a son he's only just learned he has, but he knows exactly how he feels about the promise of a real bath.

Stan allows Carla to lead him up the stairs (Miraculously, he manages to get from the ground floor to the second floor without incident. It's progress. Hard-won progress.) and into the bathroom.

"That jacket is going to have to go," the woman states, "Probably the shirt, too."

"Sure you don't just wanna see me naked, Hotpants?" Stan quips as he attempts to shrug out of the tattered jacket. The tortured fabric clings stubbornly to his wings and refuses to let go.

Carla snorts in amusement as Stan struggles to free himself from the article of clothing. "That isn't my goal here, Knucklehead," she tells him before she steps forward and kisses his cheek. Stanley freezes in his wrestling match with the inanimate object at Carla's sudden nearness. She continues in a whisper, lips still close enough to brush against his skin as she speaks, "but if you're offering, I can't say I wouldn't take some time to appreciate the view."

And then she's gone. Carla ducks around him and begins untangling the shredded fabric of his cheap jacket and threadbare t-shirt.

Stan huffs and returns his attention to the task at hand. ~~It's unfortunate that the task at hand isn't stripping his wife bare and picking up where they'd left off a few hours earlier.~~ With Carla's help, Stan manages to free himself of the ruined clothes without too much trouble.

The woman takes a step back and worries her bottom lip between her teeth as she studies him. Stan glances down at himself and blinks in surprise. "Holy cow!" the gargoyle gapes, "I haven't had abs since Florida!"

Carla sighs. The woman reaches out and trails a finger over a few of his ribs, drawing his attention to the fact that they're probably a bit more pronounced than they should be. The gargoyle gives himself another once over in the mirror above the sink and realizes that he looks lean, of all things. Stanley doesn't think he's been _lean_ a day in his life, until now. He'd been a fat kid and he'd still been kind of chunky after he took up boxing. Even while he'd been in the best shape of his life and finally succeeded in shedding those last pounds of baby fat, he'd had the bulk of muscle weighing him down. Right now, he looks like he's been pared down of everything nonessential, to the point where he looks almost emaciated. If it weren't for his broad shoulders (and wings) he might have even seemed small.

"How many extra pounds were you carrying before you came here?" his wife asks, face pinched. The tether whispers vague worries at him.

"Uh," Stan hesitates. When was the last time he'd bothered stepping on a scale? "Somewhere between thirty and fifty, maybe?" he guesses.

Carla frowns and shakes her head. "I'm going to need to have a chat with a triangle," she mutters under her breath.

...What?

"Carla?"

"Nothing," she dismisses, "Let's see about making you some clothes that fit."

* * *

Stanley sits in the small tub and wishes there was more room to stretch out in it. Ford's bathtub would probably be just fine if it weren't for the fact that Stan's gained a set of wings and a tail. Unfortunately, his additional limbs leave the gargoyle feeling cramped in the restricted space. It isn't helping that his new wings are making it impossible to wash his back. Still, he's cleaner than he's been in months. It's amazing how much better it feels just to have been able to wash his hair, even if working around the horns coming out of his forehead had been annoying.

A knock on the bathroom door draws him out of his latest battle against his wings.

"Ley? I have a set of your clothes ready. May I come in?"

The gargoyle freezes, struck by an unexpected bout of self-consciousness. Stanley shakes his head and scowls to himself. He's never been a prude about nudity before and he isn't about to start now with his wife of all people.

"Stanley?" Carla calls again from the other side of the door, "Is everything okay in there?"

"No -- I mean, yeah, it's fine," Stan stumbles through his words, a flush creeping up his face, "You can come in."

He doesn't think he's been this nervous about Carla seeing him naked since the first time they -- Actually, he doesn't think he was this nervous even then. What is _wrong_ with him? He trusts Carla. ~~Doesn't he?~~ Of course he does.

The woman enters the room and closes the door behind her. Unlike Stan, she remembers to lock it afterward. "I think I've come up with something that will work," Carla says as she sets the clothes in her hands down on the counter next to the sink, "but the only way to know for certain is for you to try them on." Carla looks at him and her mouth forms a surprised 'o' before her gaze slides away from him. "I can leave, if you want," she offers, eyes fixed on the wall.

"What? No! Why would you --" It's only then that Stanley realizes he's practically hiding behind his wings. For pity's sake, is he ever going to be able to get these things under control? Stan awkwardly repositions his wings. "You can stay."

Carla glances at him, features painted with concern, but then her gaze goes right back to that same patch of wall. "Are you sure?" she asks, "It's been a long time, Ley, and you've gone through a lot of changes recently. I don't want to push you for more than I already am."

Stan huffs in irritation. The gargoyle sits up straighter and squares his shoulders. This whole thing is ridiculous. "I'm sure," he says, "I, uh, I could actually use some help. Wings are making it hard to reach my back." His voice has trailed off into an embarrassed half-mumble by the time he finishes speaking but Carla is looking at him again.

"Oh. Okay," the woman says, eyes darting over him in consideration, "I can help with that."

Carla bends over and peels off her fluffy, pink socks. She then folds up the pant legs of her jeans until they end closer to her knees than her ankles. The woman pads across the room before carefully slipping around him and settling on the rim of the tub behind him.

The gargoyle wordlessly offers her the washcloth he's been using. Carla accepts it in equal silence and immediately sets herself to her task. It isn't long before Stan finds himself not only relaxing under his wife's steady hands but actively arching into her touch. It feels _good_. A low rumble builds in his chest as she works. Carla giggles and gives short, answering growl of her own. Stanley smiles.

"Wings?" he asks hopefully as Carla begins to run out of unwashed skin on his back.

"We can do that," she says.

The bathtub is still too confining to allow Stanley to extend his wings completely, which is a problem. Carla's hands also aren't as sure on his wings as they were on his back as she tries to guide them into a better position, and her hesitancy leaves him feeling restless. Carla hums in thought after a few fruitless minutes spent attempting to get his disobedient wings to cooperate.

She rests her fingertips lightly over the spot where his left wing joins his back. Stan presses back more fully against her touch. "Firmer," he grumbles, "You're not going to hurt me, Carla."

He feels her startle at his words. "I thought you said they were sensitive?" she asks.

Stan grunts. "I'm getting used to them," he tells her, "It's not so bad as it was earlier."

"Alright," Carla says and then, strangely, she adds, "Shoulder." Stan is about to question the odd statement but then her fingers trail along the structure of his wing until they reach the next joint. "Elbow," she recites. Her hand travels over his wing further. Carla twists her wrist so that her fingers line up with the bones radiating out from the last major joint in his wing. "Pinky, Ring, Middle, Pointer," she says in turn. Carla brushes the side of her thumb against the hooked claw protruding from the top of the wing as she finishes, "and Thumb."

Huh. Well, in that case. "Wrist?" he asks.

"Um, here," Carla moves her hand back a few inches, "I think."

Stan makes a careful attempt at wiggling his 'fingers.' For once, his wing moves almost like he intends for it to move. Go figure, that actually worked. "Baby, have I mentioned how brilliant you are, lately?" he asks as he grins back at her.

"I may have heard you say something like that a time or two," Carla returns with an amused smirk, "Come on, Knucklehead, we can't spend all day in the bath."

Things go more smoothly from there.


	27. Conflict of Instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Attention:** This fic has been a victim of rating creep. It started at Teen, moved up to Mature, and is now entering Explicit territory. Considering the last chapter ended with Carla, a naked Stan, and a locked door between them and Ford, it should have been pretty obvious where this chapter was going to go. So, for those who...
> 
>  _Don't like smut:_ This chapter will probably go farther than you'd like. You should be able to skip it and continue on to the next chapter without issue. Hope to see you there!
> 
>  _Enjoy smut:_ This chapter probably won't go as far as you'd like, but it's already further than I'd originally planned for this fic to go. You'll just have to take what you can get, I'm afraid.
> 
> Everyone dissatisfied? Great! Let's go!

At some point that neither Stan nor Carla will be able to pinpoint later, cleaning had become something closer to caressing. The caressing, in turn, had lead to flirting and kissing. It shouldn't have been surprising that it all had inevitably lead into fondling.

Stan breaks his latest kiss with Carla and begins nuzzling the underside of the woman's jaw. He growls encouragingly as one of his wife's hands abandons its place at his neck to explore more of him. Carla's fingers drift over his chest, and then progressively lower, until her hand is beneath the waterline and tantalizingly close to where he most wants her touch.

Stan draws a sharp breath and suppresses the whine trying to escape him. This woman is going to be the death of him. He forces himself to pull away enough to see Carla's face. "I thought you were set on 'no cross-species sex'?" he rumbles, caught between praying his words won't cause her to withdraw and needing to be know where the line is, "You keep this up and I can promise you we won't be sticking to that."

The woman flushes, eyes widening just a little. "I, I was. I _am_ ," Carla confirms, glancing away for a moment and then back. Her expression smooths out into something more confident, flustered embarrassment apparently banished as quickly as it came. She gives him a grin, flirtatious with a wry edge to it, "But I wouldn't be opposed to, well, lending a helping hand. If you need me."

Stanley groans. "I always need you." Her hand begins moving again, achingly slow. "Carla," he whines, his breathing becoming shallow and fast. She giggles at his impatience and her fingertips finally, finally brush against his hardened flesh.

He moves without meaning to, his entire body surging forward and bringing plenty of water with it. There's a growl caught in his throat but he ignores it, more focused on pressing their bodies as closely together as he can with Carla's now-soaked clothes still in the way. The wet denim of her jeans isn't exactly the most pleasant texture to grind his naked hard-on against but he no longer cares. He needs his wife. He's desperate for her.

"Ley," Carla gasps, both hands flying up to clutch his shoulders as he lifts her from her spot on the edge of the tub. She conforms herself to him without thought or hesitation and Stan pins her to the tiled surface behind her. He walls her in on either side with his wings as he continues to crowd her further. "Oh," she moans softly and takes a shaky breath. Carla cups his face between gentle palms and guides him to meet her gaze, "Stanley, calm down. Easy. It's alright."

Stan growls back. He can feel his expression twist as he attempts to regain control of himself. Words are frustratingly beyond his grasp. The gargoyle presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes.

"That's right. It's okay." Her thumbs stroke over his cheeks. "Breathe. Let me take care of you, Ley. Put me down."

The gargoyle groans, stills, and then obeys. Stanley sinks back down to his knees in the lukewarm water and carefully returns Carla to her previous perch. Something like a keen escapes his throat.

"It's alright. I've got you," Carla tells him before initiating another kiss.

Stan returns her kiss but not her gentleness. He doesn't have the self-control for it, currently. Instead his actions are hard, and demanding, and so damned needy. He breaks the contact as her fingers meet his erection again, wrapping around him and --

The gargoyle snarls at his wife and bucks against her hand. He needs _more_. Stan kisses his way down Carla's neck, leaving behind tell-tale red marks. The woman shivers and gives a low moan, " _Stanley._ "

Sharp teeth graze lightly over delicate skin. He doesn't recall having such a preoccupation with his teeth and her neck before. Carla gasps just a little with every nip. He almost pulls away when he finally realizes the niggling feeling from the tether is _fear_ , but the hand on his nape keeps him in place. His wife's voice is breathy as she says, "Don't stop." Stan growls and nips her harder. Carla moans.

_Not close enough._

_Pin her down._

_Make her sing._

_Mark her flesh._

Pain suddenly blares through the tether, followed by a sharp spike of terror, and freezes the gargoyle in place. Different instincts clash and it takes a few seconds for Stanley to grasp a coherent understanding of what he's done.

There's blood in his mouth.

"Shh. Calm down, Ley," his wife's voice shakes ever so slightly as she speaks.

Carla's stopped stroking him.

"It's alright. Let go."

Stan's jaw tenses and Carla hisses lightly.

"Let go, Stanley."

Reality finally clicks back into focus for Stan. It's Carla's blood that's coating his teeth. He has his jaw clamped down on her shoulder. He's _bitten_ his wife.

Stanley releases Carla with something not unlike a yelp. A firm hand catches the gargoyle before he can withdraw too far.

"It's okay. Calm down," the woman says with a small sigh. It would be more convincing if her tone wasn't so obviously relieved.

"C-Carla." Stan hesitates to touch the ring of red staining her shirt. "W-what, w-what did I -- Are you --"

She uses the hand on the back of his head to push him to her uninjured shoulder. Stan resists for a moment but Carla's steady insistence soon sees his forehead pressed tight against the crook of her neck. "I'm fine. It's okay."

Stanley grits his teeth. "Carla, you are _not_ fine! This is _not_ okay!"

"You stopped. It's not deep. It will heal."

"Carla, this is --"

"Trust me."

Stanley pauses.

The backs of the woman's fingers trail along the inside of his thigh and he responds on instinct, growling and mouth searching for purchase in her skin. Carla keeps a strong grip on his head and moves with him so that she remains safely out of reach.

Stan realizes a number of things at once. The first being that he is still achingly hard. Another being that a part of him _likes_ the taste of her blood. And the same part that likes her blood likes having left a visible mark on her skin. ~~What is _wrong_ with him? Oh, right. The gargoyle thing.~~ And finally, Carla is still too damned stubborn for her own good.

~~There's a seventeen-year-old girl in his memories with an overstuffed suitcase, determination in her eyes, and a simple ultimatum that had seen two teenagers crossing the state line roughly an hour later.~~

Carla's fingers find his erection and resume their earlier ministrations. Stan, for his part, slips under the pull of his new instincts once more. The tether is quiet again except for a faint echo of pain. The gargoyle tries to use the sensation to ground himself to limited success. Stan hears the edges of the bathtub strain under his hands as he snarls and thrusts into his wife's fisted hand.

When she nips his ear and growls back, Stanley loses himself.

He becomes aware of his own heavy breathing first, followed by Carla's humming. The woman's right hand is still pressed firmly against the back of his head but her left is now trailing lazily over his hip.

"Ngheh," Stan tries to work the ache out of his jaw.

Carla's humming fades away. "Back with me?" she asks.

"Y-yeah." Stan swallows nervously and pulls away from his wife's neck. His eyes immediately seek out the injury he's left on her. "I bit you."

"You did," his wife agrees, "You also stopped almost as soon as you started."

"I shouldn't have bitten you _at all_. I'm sorry."

Carla sighs and pushes her bangs back from her face. The water from her fingers causes the hair to stick up at odd angles. "I know. I'm sorry, too."

Stan blinks. "Why are _you_ sorry?" He shifts closer to his wife, pulling his hands away from the edges of the tub to rest on her hips instead. Carla's small hands settle over his chest.

The woman's smile is rueful as she meets his eyes. "I seem to recall someone cautioning me about growling creatures 'twice my size' with sharp teeth, and I didn't listen to their warning."

Stan huffs out a sigh. "I didn't want to be right about that."

"I didn't want you to be, either, but I still shouldn't have ignored what you said."

"Yeah, probably not," the gargoyle grumbles, eyes refocusing on the ring of blood now staining Carla's shirt, "You're sure it isn't bad?"

"I'm sure. I'll be fine."

He frowns, worry pulling at his features. "Alright."

"Hey," she waits until he meets her eyes again and says, "I love you, Stanley Jacob Pines."

Something tight in his chest loosens at the words and makes it a little easier to breathe. Stan's expression softens and he returns, "I love you, Carla Anne Pines."


	28. Once Bitten

Stanford is in the middle of ascending the staircase to the second floor when Carla stumbles out of the bathroom with a grin on her face and looking very... disheveled.

 _'And so it begins,'_ the man thinks irritably. He supposes the only surprise is that their self-control lasted this long. Ford fights the scowl that wants to take over his face. For the sake of his sanity, he is _not_ going think about which part of his bathroom has the highest statistical probability of having just been defiled. That, however, does not mean this behavior can be allowed to continue unchecked.

"Carla," he calls as he reaches the landing.

The woman in question startles out of her semi-dazed state. "Ford! Hi!" she greets him, face taking on a sheepish expression though her smile doesn't waver in the slightest, "Um, Stanley should be out soon, if you need more help."

"No need," he dismisses, "Everything's been moved out of Jason's reach. It's not organized, but that's not an issue for now." Ford takes the time to examine the woman carefully. He doesn't _want_ to know everything that his brother and sister-in-law do in private, but Stan's current condition might lead to... _complications_ , if they aren't careful.

Carla's clothes are soaked and her hair is holding strange shapes thanks to the water in it. There is a collection of hickies along the side of her neck, peeking out from behind her damp hair. Her feet are bare and though he assumes her jeans were rolled up symmetrically at one point, one has nearly undone itself completely and the other hangs at a strange angle midway up her shin. Carla's already flushed complexion darkens another few shades under his stare. Overall, the woman appears flustered but uninjured.

"Oh. Good. Good," she says, her right hand coming up to cover the line of incriminating marks on her neck. Ford doubts she is even aware she's doing so. Awkwardly, Carla attempts to excuse herself, "I, uh, I just need to get changed real quick."

Ford sighs and catches the woman's elbow as she tries to slip past him to the bedroom. "Carla, you can't do this," he tells her.

Carla's face contorts mulishly. "Do _what_ exactly?" the woman demands.

Ford rolls his eyes. "Wind Stan up," he states bluntly, "He's not himself, right now. He's not going to react like the man you knew. He could hurt you if you push him too far."

"He's still Stanley!" Carla protests, "He's not going to hurt anyone!"

"I'm not saying he would mean to," Ford tells her, frustration beginning to color his tone, "I'm saying it would be too easy for him to underestimate his body's capabilities or fall victim to instincts he doesn't realize he has. He's dangerous, Carla. Doubly so if you're busy provoking him. 

The woman scowls and looks away. "I can behave myself," she mutters petulantly.

"Have you been?" Ford challenges.

Carla glares at him and says, "I will." That's a confession, or the closest he can expect to get out of her while she's in the mood to fight.

Ford takes a measured breath. "That's all I ask," he tells her, "I'll do what I can to fix this quickly. But I can't do an effective job at restoring Stanley to himself if I'm also trying to babysit the two of you."

Some of the belligerence seems to drain out of Carla, leaving something closer to a chagrined expression on her face. "You're right," she admits in a sigh, "I wish you weren't, but you're right." Carla pushes her bangs back from her forehead. In the same mindless motion, she pulls her hair away from where it's sticking to her neck and flips it over her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Ford."

He barely hears the apology. He's too focussed on the ring of blood decorating the woman's shirt. "You're injured!" he exclaims, shocked.

Carla grimaces at the statement and a realization strikes him like lightning. She hadn't been planning to tell him about the wound at all, had she? The memory of Bill's mocking laughter rings in his head.

"It's hardly anything!" she deflects.

"If it bleeds, it counts. Those were _your_ rules, Carla!" he snaps.

She cringes at the reminder but doesn't resist him as he moves closer to make a preliminary examination of the damage. "It looks a lot worse than it really is," Carla insists.

Ford carefully pulls the stained cloth away from the wound and feels his grip on his temper slipping at what he sees. There are two arched rows of puncture wounds lining the front and back of the woman's shoulder. "He _bit_ you!"

"It's not deep!"

"It's a miracle you aren't missing a chunk of your shoulder! Gargoyle teeth are sharp enough to go through human skin and muscle like they're not even there! He has the jaw strength to snap your bones like twigs!"

Carla winces and holds her hands up in a pacifying manner. "But he didn't! Ford, I'm fine! Calm down!"

Ford throws his arms into the air over his head. "Unbelievable!" he yells and makes large, sweeping gestures as he continues, "It doesn't matter what he does, or who he hurts, you always take his side! You can't keep making excuses for him like this, Carla! Especially not when you're the one paying the price for his idiocy!" The man stares at her intently as he says his next words. He needs to be sure she knows how dangerous the game she and Stanley are playing really is. "You could have been bleeding out, right now, if he'd gone any further! Do you get that? _He could have killed you!_ "

Carla's eyes are round in shock and her expression is one he doesn't immediately recognize. Fear, maybe. But, if that's the case, he can't tell if its cause is what he's said or how he's said it. The thought that Stan was the one to hurt her but it might be _him_ that frightens her only makes him angrier.

Ford twists around and glares at the closed bathroom door that he knows his twin is behind. He doesn't even make it a full step in that direction before Carla grabs his arm and puts all her weight into holding him back.

"Stanford! Stanford, calm down!" she pleads, "Okay! You're right! He bit me! But he stopped! It's a small injury! I'm still in one piece! I'll be fine! Please, Ford, just calm down!"

"And what about the next time?" he demands, turning to face her again.

Carla shakes her head and cups his cheeks in her hands. He hadn't known he was crying at all until she started wiping tears from his face. "There won't be a next time," she asserts, "There wouldn't have been a _this_ time if I hadn't gotten him all riled up to begin with. It won't happen again."

Some of the rage he feels slips from his grasp as it reveals itself for the fear-fueled reaction that it is. Carla isn't in critical condition. The small amount of stability her presence offers hasn't been ripped away. But merely because things aren't as bad as they could have been doesn't mean what happened can be ignored.

"He's still responsible for his own actions," Ford insists, though his will to continue the argument is rapidly waning.

"And I didn't need to make things more difficult for him," Carla says. Her tone as she speaks is carefully balanced between being firm and gentle. "Don't hold this against your brother. It was my decisions that caused everything to snowball the way it did. Stanley was in perfect control of himself until I went out of my way to change that."

Ford chokes back a sob that wants to escape him. "Please, I can't lose you like that. The only thing worse than asking you to leave was knowing that you were in danger as long as you stayed. If I can't trust Stan to protect you..." He doesn't finish the sentence.

"I'll be alright, Ford," she urges, "Trust me."

The man hesitates, balancing precariously between the part of himself that's learned trust is foolish and the part that desperately needs to be able to trust _someone_ and recognizes Carla as the best candidate. Stanford searches her face. He finds steady, earnest eyes and there is a doggedly determined set to both her brow and her mouth.

"There's still a first aid kit in the kitchen, isn't there?" Carla says, "Let's go downstairs. You can patch me up and see for yourself that it isn't so bad." She takes his hands and tugs lightly as she takes a step toward the staircase.

Ford offers no resistance as he follows her. "O-okay," the scientist agrees in a shaky voice, "but th-this can't happen again."

Carla glances back at the bathroom door and sighs. "It won't," she says, "Ley wasn't exactly happy once he'd realized what he'd done, either." She turns away and leads him down the stairs. "I'll just have to accept that some things are off the table for now."


	29. Twice Shy

Carla had explained the alterations she'd made to his clothes before she'd left to change her own soaked outfit. Stan still finds himself searching for a comfortable angle he can twist at to grab the new straps meant to wrap under his wings and hold his shirt together. He doesn't want to think about how long he'll need to hold the position in order to secure them to the buttons that will anchor them in place.

(The pants, which Carla had made sure were at least serviceable before she'd ducked out, were a lot easier. The woman had taken his baggiest pair of jeans and cut them off at the knees so they wouldn't impede the changed range-of-motion his legs now have or get caught around his over-large feet. With an additional hole cut out for his tail, it had been a simple enough matter to pull his boxers and pants on more-or-less like normal. Of course, none of his clothes fit very well with his sudden lack of belly fat and a belt had been necessary to cinch the pants tight enough to keep them where they belonged. He's pretty sure Carla had pinched the belt in question directly from Ford's wardrobe.)

The gargoyle listens with half-an-ear as he hears his twin greet Carla out in the hall. It doesn't take long for them to fall into an argument. About him. Stan huffs and stops paying attention to the words being exchanged on the other side of the door. He's had more than enough of this 'not in his right mind' line of thinking. He's _fine_. And if Ford thinks he can bully Carla into agreeing with him, he's dreaming. That woman doesn't let anyone tell her what she can or can't do.

He manages to get one of the two straps buttoned before Ford discovers Stan's latest screw up.

"You're injured!" Ford says, voice hitting an octave that's outside of his usual vocal range. Stanley flinches at the pitch. This won't end well.

"It's hardly anything!" the woman responds in a rush.

Stanford sounds agitated as he says, "If it bleeds, it counts. Those were _your_ rules, Carla!"

"It looks a lot worse than it really is," Carla hedges in a softer tone. The soft edge of guilt that had been leaking from the tether as the argument went on begins to grow into something stronger.

"He _bit_ you!" Ford yells.

The tether suddenly spikes with worry and Stan is moving without a thought as to whether or not it's a good idea to insert himself into the spiralling conversation between his wife and twin.

"It's not deep!"

"It's a miracle you aren't missing a chunk of your shoulder!" Ford insists, obviously angry, "Gargoyle teeth are sharp enough to go through human skin and muscle like they're not even there! He has the jaw strength to snap your bones like twigs!"

Stan nearly stumbles over his own feet and draws a sharp breath.

The guilt is back, but this time the gargoyle isn't sure how much of it is Carla's and how much is his own. Carla speaks again. Stan barely hears her through his horror. It is far too easy to visualize the scenario. Carla small and fragile and helpless as he tears a hole in her body with his teeth.

His stomach rolls. He reaches out a hand to lean against the nearest wall as the nausea threatens to overcome him.

Ford is screaming outside. Nothing registers except the last sentence, " ** _He could have killed you!_** "

He's drowning. He can't tell what is coming from the tether and what emotions originate from him, but he's suffocating under the surging storm they cause inside him. The instincts are worse. A cacophony of conflicting demands that he can't untangle. A single thought soon rises above the rest: _Get to Carla._ He's not sure what he'll do after that, but... He needs to get to Carla.

Maybe if he could remember how to breathe correctly, he could do that.

The sound of creaking stairs reaches his ears past his panic.

No, no no nonono! The farther away Carla is, the harder it will be to check on her and make sure she's still in one piece!

He staggers to his feet. (When had he ended up on the floor?) Stan barely remembers to twist the knob to open the door instead of tearing the whole thing clear off its hinges. The gargoyle scrambles down the staircase on all fours and hits the landing in a run.


	30. Barriers

A gargoyle rushing headlong through a wooden cabin is far from stealthy. In fact, it happens to be rather loud. However, getting from 'Point A' to 'Point B' in such a small structure takes barely any time regardless of where either point is, so Carla only just manages to turn to look behind herself before Stanley rounds the kitchen doorway and she is plunged into instant darkness for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

"Carla!" Ford yelps from somewhere beyond the cocoon of wings and inky black.

The woman squeaks as she jerks backward on instinct and promptly loses her balance. Strong arms catch her before she can fall. "L-Ley?" she questions as she gets her feet back under her, perplexed and somewhat alarmed by her husband's sudden arrival.

The gargoyle's reply consists of briefly nuzzling the underside of her jaw and a high pitched keen. Stanley tugs the neck of her blouse to the side and begins to carefully prod at the bite on her shoulder with his clawed fingers.

Carla draws in a breath through her teeth. It doesn't hurt too badly, but she doesn't particularly want anyone poking at the injury, either. " _Stanley,_ " she says as she catches his wrist.

The gargoyle offers only a quiet growl followed by a soft whine, and that can't be a good thing. What could have gotten him so wound up that he isn't using words?

Her husband reaches for the wound a second time and Carla tightens her hold. " _Stanley,_ " she repeats, "Leave it alone. I'll be _fine_." She doesn't understand the new fixation on the bite. She'd thought they had that settled before she'd exited the bathroom. What's changed in the handful of minutes since she'd left him?

There's a sound like heavy boulders grinding against one another for a moment before it resolves itself into recognizable speech, "I, I -- Ford said, Ford said that I coulda, coulda..." Ley trails off but Carla can feel the tremble in his hands and hears the rasp of his wings moving past each other as they shift to encircle her tighter.

"You heard my argument with Ford," she realizes and immediately feels stupid. Of course Stanley had heard. The house doesn't exactly have thick walls. Carla grimaces. Great, she has both Ley and Ford worked up over the same thing from opposite sides.

"Y-yeah," Stanley answers even though it technically hadn't been a question, "Are you sure you aren't gonna -- You'll be okay, right?"

"I'll be patched up in no time," she assures, then adds, "You didn't do anything wrong, Ley."

Stanley makes a disbelieving scoff at that. "Still stubborn," he grumbles under his breath. Louder, he adds, "You're upset."

"I'm --" Carla closes her mouth around the automatic denial. The tether allows Ley to pick up on what she's feeling -- to what extent, she isn't sure yet -- and she isn't much for lying, anyway. "I'm out of practice at balancing you and Ford at the same time," she admits, "and I'm making a mess of things. It isn't helping that the two of you aren't on good terms with each other. I'll figure it out eventually. It just might take longer than I'd like, that's all."

Carla can feel the way he shrinks into himself before he says anything in response. "Sorry," Ley mumbles, "I don't mean to make things difficult for you."

"It's not --" the woman finds herself midway through yet another thoughtless, not-necessarily-true denial and changes the wording slightly, "-- just your fault. We're all responsible for our own part in it. And _we_ will find a way to make it work. It, it might not be easy," she admits, "It's been a long time since all three of us were last together and none of us are quite who we used to be, but..." Carla rallies and states, "It's what I want. And I know it's what you want. And, when he isn't busy being bullheaded, I know Stanford wants it, too."

"Heh. You're really set on making Ford an' me get along, aren't you?" the gargoyle asks, tone caught between fondness and resignation.

"Absolutely," she asserts, "You'll both be much happier when you're friends again and I'm happy when my family is happy. Also, if you two make my baby cry because 'Daddy' and 'Uncle Ford' can't play nice with each other, I will make your life a living Hell, Stanley Pines."

"What about Ford?"

 _'Twins,'_ Carla thinks in response to what is clearly a knee-jerk reaction of a question and very carefully doesn't roll her eyes. "Don't worry. If you two do something stupid, I'll make sure you both regret it." Her brow furrows as a new thought comes to her. "Actually, I'm kind of surprised Ford is being so patient right now."

"Oh," Stanley says, echoing her confusion.

The soft sound of wings retracting is immediately followed by a loud _CRACK!_ that reminds Carla of thunder from a too-close lightning strike. They both stare dumbfounded at the sight of light streaming past a fissure in a stone wall. How had that gotten there?

"Carla?" Ford's worried voice calls from the other side of the barrier.

"I'm fine," she calls back and adds, "So is Stanley. Thanks for asking." Her husband huffs and tightens his hold on her.

Carla reaches for the wall. It crumbles under her touch. The stone breaks into chunks and the rocks tumble over themselves before clattering across the kitchen floor.

"It seems stone barriers are used for more than protection during the rest cycle," Ford says with a strained expression. He does a poor job hiding the fretful visual inspection he gives her. Or maybe he isn't bothering with trying to hide it at all.

Carla sighs heavily and pulls away from Ley's embrace to approach Ford. "Bandages?" she reminds the man.

Ford's mouth flattens into an angry line. His eyes shift to his brother and he says, "If you injure her again, I'll put a bolt through you."

" _Stanford!_ " Carla yells even as the older twin guides her to a chair. She hadn't noticed earlier, but he retrieved his crossbow at some point while she and Stanley had been wrapped up in their own little world and has it strapped across his back. "Don't threaten your brother with the crossbow!"

"Not a threat," Ford corrects, "A promise."

Ley glares right back at his twin. "I know I screwed up, okay? It won't happen again," he snaps, "And I've been threatened by guys a lot scarier than you, Poindexter."

She doesn't need to turn around to look at Ford to know that his expression has taken a turn toward something less than sane. It's all in the way Ley suddenly recoils, wide-eyed and shocked.

"Perhaps," Ford allows in a quiet voice, "I hardly think I know about _every_ lowlife you've run afoul of, but I think I probably rate higher than you give me credit for."


	31. Crumble

"Stanford," Carla calls just loudly enough to catch the man's attention. She covers the hand resting on her uninjured shoulder with her right hand. The woman tips her head back so she can see him.

Ford looks down at her, breaking his staring contest with Stan. The gargoyle swallows against his suddenly dry mouth. Whatever had been looking at him from behind his twin's face hadn't been the brother he knows. Eyes bright with something bordering insanity and smile sharp without a trace of mirth. He'd thought he'd been confronted with a monster a few hours ago in the mirror, but there is something far less tame hiding in Stanford.

Stanley watches cautiously as Ford stares at Carla and Carla stares at Ford. Nothing is said but there is a definite air of waiting. The largest movements in the room are the three occupants breathing and the slow back and forth sweep of Carla's thumb over Ford's wrist. Stan isn't sure how long the stillness stretches for but, eventually, Ford blinks and a bit of the... _feralness_ leaves his gaze.

"You're awake, Stanford," Carla states softly, "Bill can't reach you. You're safe."

Ford goes still for a second before drawing a shuddering breath. "O-oh! I, I thought..." He doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, he pulls away from Carla as if burned and stumbles back a step. Hazel eyes dart between Carla and Stan from behind the scientist's glasses. He wrings his hands and says, "Things started spiralling. It felt like maybe... I didn't mean to, to..."

"You're _safe_ , Ford," Carla asserts, but doesn't reach for him.

Stanford shifts uneasily. "I'm starting to doubt that." He glances at Stan again. "If," the skin around his eyes grows pinched, "if _I_ do something that threatens Carla or Jason's safety, I need you to promise you'll stop me."

"You wouldn't..." Stanley can't say the words with any of the conviction he would have had only moment's before. Not after seeing Ford stare him down like some of the crazier criminals he's had the misfortune of crossing paths with over the past four years. His twin had worn a look like a man backed into a corner, ready to fight his way out even if it meant leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

(But Stan has seen at least two different versions of that look. The first is what you'd expect from someone in a bad situation: fear, desperation, panic, and maybe some grim determination. The second version, the one he'd seen on his twin's face, is the one people get when they've been back-against-the-wall a few too many times: cold, ruthless, focussed and maybe some degree of manic.)

Ford gives him another broken smile, but at least this one doesn't feel like it's a threat. "I'm more dangerous than I appear at first glance."

Stan doesn't like any of this. "I promise," he half-sighs.

Ford remains withdrawn but his form loosens a little and he tips his head down in a nod.

Carla looks back and forth between the twins, her lips pursed in obvious displeasure. "If you two are done second guessing my ability to choose my own company," she says pointedly, "could one of you see about bandaging my shoulder? I'd like to be able to change into some dry clothes before I catch a cold or something."

"I'll do it!" Stanford says quickly. Apparently being reminded of the bite is enough to send Ford right back into trying to keep Stan away from Carla. "Stanley can take care of cleaning up the rocks he introduced to my kitchen." Ford toes one of the stones in question for emphasis. It splits into three uneven pieces under the light pressure and the scientist's eyebrows lift in interest. "You might want to look for a broom, first."

Carla rolls her eyes but offers no objections.

Stan, for his part, grumbles, "Fine," and heads for the living room. He's pretty sure he saw a broom in there earlier. He'll have to hope it hasn't been moved.


	32. Awkward is as Awkward Does

Ford's hands are gentle as he cleans the wound on her shoulder.

Carla tries not to break into shivers. The rag is warm enough, but the water it leaves behind cools quickly. Add to that the little fact that she's still drenched from earlier but also now shirtless in a cabin that is a few degrees lower in temperature than she would prefer, well, she's looking forward to changing into some dry clothes. Layers upon layers of them.

Stanford hums in approval. "You were right," he says softly, "It did look worse than it is. It shouldn't be too much trouble to bandage it up."

"Told you," she says, attempting a teasing lilt but doubtful of her success. "Can you work a little faster, Ford? I'm freezing."

"Sorry," the man answers, "Hydrogen peroxide, next."

Carla sighs but looks up when Stanley returns from his search for a broom (apparently successful) and promptly freezes in the doorway. The gargoyle stares at her and Ford with a distinctly unhappy expression and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why.

The woman beats back the self-conscious urge to squirm in her seat and instead offers her husband an apologetic smile. She is certainly _not_ going to think about how, with the right strap pushed aside to allow Stanford unobstructed access to the bite, it is only the arm she is holding under her breasts that keeps her bra properly in place. Or how over the years Ford has seen her in various states of dress more revealing than a bra and full-length jeans while having less to distract him than an injury in need of tending. It wasn't like she'd ever set out with the _intention_ of giving Ford an eyeful (and vice versa, for that matter) but things came up, like now, and sometimes modesty had to take a backseat to practicality. (Or else it had simply been a thoughtless, embarrassing accident.) Still, Ley isn't ready to hear that, she isn't ready to try to defend it, and it isn't fair to drag Ford into the numerous marital problems that she and Ley are busy ignoring.

Stanley frowns and looks away, focussing on sweeping all the rocks into a pile near the door. Carla won't lie to herself and pretend that he is any more content with the situation than he was a second ago, but no more fighting seems imminent, and right now she's willing to take whatever she can get.

Stanford uses a cotton ball to dab disinfectant over the first of all the little puncture wounds encircling her shoulder. The soft sound of air hissing through Carla's teeth is drowned out by a sudden growl. Carla's gaze springs to the gargoyle in question only to spy snarling features quickly morphing into surprise.

"If that was a reaction prompted by the tether," Ford says in an even voice, without bothering to look up, "she's fine. You can see she's fine." And then he returns to his work.

Carla keeps her lips firmly shut this time despite the sting and breathes out through her nose. Ley isn't quite as successful. A second warning growl gets cut off shortly after it begins.

"Sorry," Carla mumbles. In just how many ways does this magic tether affect her husband?

"Not your fault," Ley insists. His hands clench around the broom handle in time with Ford's first aid ministrations as he sweeps rocks (practically a collection of pebbles and dust at this point) out the back door and into the snow.

"It will be over soon," Ford puts in, "A few butterfly bandages, some gauze and medical tape, and we should be done here."

"Good," Carla sighs.

Ford, however, has more to say. "While I have you both here and willing to admit this is an incident none of us want to be repeated --"

 _'Oh, God,'_ Carla groans internally.

Stanley doesn't bother with similarly containing himself, "Seriously, Poindexter?"

"-- it would be prudent to address the root of the problem," Ford continues, not in the least deterred, "I'm going to assume this was completely anomalous behavior for Stanley and not some kind of sexual kink that I was previously unaware of -- Please, feel free _not_ to correct me on this if I am mistaken. --"

Carla buries her face in her free hand and whines, " _Stanford_..."

Ford ignores her as easily as he ignored Stanley. "-- and that even if it is such a practice, it was unintentional that it went as far as it did.

"I'd wager it's a mating instinct Stanley didn't even realize he had. More to the point, I'd be willing to wager that there are _more_ mating instincts that Stan is _still_ unaware he has and Carla is not a gargoyless. Her skin isn't as resilient as a gargoyle's would be nor are her bones as durable. Beyond that, she does not have a gargoyle's ability to accelerate her healing through sleep. As Stan currently _is_ a gargoyle, this means there is large physical disparity between the two of you.

"In short, your bodies and their respective mating practices are _not_ compatible. Pursuing any further sexual exploits would be worse than foolish until we have successfully restored Stanley's humanity. Do _not_ attempt to rekindle your physical relationship until the gargoyle problem has been resolved or I _will_ find a way to separate you two."

A few seconds later, Stanley finds his tongue again and says, "Poindexter, pretty sure that was the definition of 'prude,' not 'prudent.'"

"For the love of --" Stanford sputters, "Stanley, this is serious! And I'm not a prude!"

"Yeah, you are," Ley says, "Always thought you'd outgrow it at some point, though." He makes a show of squinting at his twin like he's trying to figure out why his expectations were wrong.

The conversation degenerates from there into what is obviously a well-worn argument between the brothers and Carla quietly wishes she was somewhere else not listening to the petty back and forth.


	33. A Shelved Conversation

Stanley shifts restlessly in the cramped space between the top of one of Ford's bookcases and the ceiling of the first floor of the cabin. Below him, Ford leans against the very same bookcase with his arms crossed. The scientist drums the fingers of his right hand against his left elbow. Both twins stare out the front window as Carla paces back and forth across the porch, disappearing only to reappear a moment later and vanish from sight again in the opposite direction she had the last time.

The anxiety of waiting is getting to all of them. Stan is familiar with both Carla's and Ford's reactions to the low-level stress that comes with it. His own are new. He's hated heights since Chicago. And the fear of dark, restricted spaces he'd picked up more recently near the border has been no less powerful in swaying his decisions. The sudden desire to claim high ground in some shadowy crevice is a bit disconcerting; but the instincts had shut up after he'd climbed into the relatively small, elevated space and the familiar phobias had failed to make themselves known, so Stan is staying put for the time being.

The quiet, however, is starting to drive him batty.

"So, when where you going to tell me about Carla and Jason?" Stan questions pointedly.

Ford glances up at him with a frown. The man uncrosses his arms long enough to retrieve the journal from his coat and open it to the first page. The scientist hurriedly gathers the photos that threaten to fall to the floor and tucks them into yet another coat pocket. Finally, Ford passes the first journal up to Stan, all without uttering so much as a word in response to the question.

The gargoyle bites back his annoyance and accepts the offered book. He stares at the page. There's a long string of numbers with several arrows drawn pointing at the collection of digits. Stan puzzles over Ford's strange non-answer for a few seconds before giving up. "Alright, what am I looking at here, Poindexter?"

"It's a phone number," his twin clarifies, "Carla's."

Stan squints at the string of numbers again. "There are too many di--" No, wait, _that_ is a California area code. Which means... He huffs in irritation. "Ford, _no one_ writes down the '1' at the beginning. And you couldn't bother to break any of this up with some dashes or something? I never woulda figured this out."

" _I_ write down the '1' and I was in a hurry when I wrote it," Stanford defends, "I didn't mean for you to have to figure it out on your own, anyway. After getting you to agree to take the journal, the next part of the plan was to send you to Carla. Emeryville is a part of the San Francisco Bay Area. It's as good a place as any to start looking for a boat."

Stanley pauses. Did Ford really think he could just _transfer_ their childhood dream to Carla? He can't say he's opposed to the idea of a boating trip with his wife, but the _dream_ has always been going sailing with his _brother_. It's different. How does Ford not see that?

"You really had this all planned out, didn't you?" he asks instead.

"Obviously not," the man answers tersely.

Stan scowls. His twin never was very good for conversation when stressed.

Carla passes by the window again, hands tugging at the knit cap on her head before they turn on the scarf wrapped around her neck.

Stanley tries again, "Why are Carla and you so twitchy? You trust these people, don't you?"

Ford grunts. "Susan has taken care of Jason in the past. I think this is the first time Carla has been separated from her son overnight, though."

"The first time?" He's never thought about it before. How old are kids usually when they start spending nights away from their parents?

"He's only two," Stanford says with a shrug.

"Three," the gargoyle corrects, "Carla says Jason turned three in January."

"O-oh," Ford breathes. The man pulls his coat tighter around his shoulders as he recalls, "It's _February_." In a quiet mumble, he laments, "I missed his birthday."

"Yeah, and I missed all of my son's birthdays!" Stanley growls. On some level, he knows that his brother's disappointment at having missed one of Jason's birthdays shouldn't make him angry. But that doesn't change the fact that it _does_. It isn't fair that _Ford_ got to be there for so much of Jason's life and _Stan_ hasn't gotten to be present for any of it yet.

Ford scowls up at him. "Yes, you did," he states, "and you have yourself to thank for that."

"I didn't know about him until last night!"

His twin has no sympathy. "If you'd just _stayed put_ , you would have."

"I had no reason to think I had anything to stick around for!" Stan argues, "Carla didn't explain anything when she left!"

"Don't," Ford warns, "She's spent nearly four years blaming herself for the separation. Don't give her a reason to go back to drowning in that pit of guilt. I don't care if you both think it's justified. I don't care if it _is_ justified. She doesn't need that."

Dammit. Ford's right. He's about to reluctantly admit as much but his brother speaks first.

"That wasn't the first postcard I've sent you over the last four years, you know. It was just the first that caught up to you before you could change addresses and states and _names_ again," Ford confesses and then, in a bitter tone, he adds, "Of course, you could have saved us all a lot of trouble if you'd ever just called home at any point in the last few years. Ma would have been more than happy to tell you everything."

Stan hunkers down and stares resolutely out the window as Carla passes by again. "Pops wouldn't have --"

"Don't give me that," Ford hisses, turning his own gaze back to the window and the snow-covered landscape beyond it, "Even if you seriously believe Dad wouldn't have let you come home -- And he _would_ have, by the way. He _expected_ you to come home. -- you could have called Ma's hotline. It would have spared her a lot of worry."

Stanley refuses to think about how much stress he's probably given their mother over the last twelve years. There isn't anything he can do about the past -- something he's learned the hard way over and over again -- and there isn't anything he can do about it right this minute either. Maybe in the near future, but not now.

The stretching silence makes him itch between his wings. Stan blurts out the first question on his tongue, "When did you start drinking? I was under the impression you thought alcohol and cigs and all that were a waste a' money and time and whatever else."

The man startles. "Don't tell Carla!" he yelps. Ford spares him an anxious glance before looking away just as quickly. "I'll get rid of it all. Just don't tell Carla I started drinking again."

Stan blinks down at the back of his brother's head. Carla doesn't have a problem with drinking. Hell, she'd been the one to pass Stan his first beer not too long after they'd started dating. (Though she had sworn off heavy drinking after Vegas.) If Ford is worried about _Carla_ finding out about his drinking, that means it's more than simply enjoying the occasional drink. That's not good.

...And his only concern about his apparent drinking problem seems to be the fear of Stan's wife finding out.

The gargoyle glares at his brother in renewed suspicion. "Just how close are you and Carla these days?"

The way Stanford instantly stiffens in response to the inquiry is one of the most unsubtle things Stan has ever witnessed. "Close," comes the curt reply.

Stan growls. "Ford."

The man stays stubbornly quiet.

It's probably a bad idea to press for more at this exact moment, all things considered, but that's precisely what Stanley is about to do when his twin unknowingly cuts him off for a second time.

"Do you know what it's like to want something you know would destroy you if you ever achieved it?" he asks in a near-whisper. "I'm starting to wonder if I'm naturally drawn to things that are bad for me. It seems like everything I work for blows up in my face." There's a half-forgotten-but-still-familiar beat of silence as his twin thinks. "There's a mutual attraction between myself and Carla," the scientist states at last, "A certain amount of... codependency, I suppose. That's as far as it goes. Becoming involved with each other romantically would be disastrous on several levels, and we're both acutely aware of that fact.

"You should talk to Carla if you want to know more. She has better clarity on this, anyway."

Stan wrestles with himself for an extended moment. He's not really _happy_ with what Ford's told him but it's honest and it obviously wasn't easy for the man to say. He can't blame Ford for being attracted to Carla, either. After all, Stan's pretty well convinced any guy with a pulse would be. (She's gorgeous, and kind, and _perfect_.) And he's never liked seeing Ford miserable and withdrawn.

The gargoyle sighs. "Thanks for telling me, Fordy," he says. Stan reaches down and ruffles his twin's hair.

Stanford ducks away from the offending hand. Hazel eyes watch him carefully for a handful of seconds before the man relaxes a bit and settles against the bookcase again. In little more than a whisper, Ford admits, "You had a right to know."

Before Stan can think of yet another doomed conversation-starter, his ears pick up on the sound of snow crunching under tires.


	34. A Mother's Prerogative

Carla paces the length of the front porch, spins on her heel, and doubles back on her own tracks.

The woman tugs her hat down further over her ears and then fiddles with her scarf. She can't keep her hands any stiller than she can keep the rest of herself, anxious fingers flying everywhere, seeking anything to straighten or fix or readjust. She's already fussed over every piece of her outfit multiple times and worn a bare-wood path through the dusting of snow the front porch had accumulated, despite the overhanging roof meant to protect it.

She ought to be inside Stanford's perfectly nice house making sure it stayed that way instead of becoming the staging sight for World War III, but she couldn't bring herself to stay inside the confined space for another second. Her baby will be back in her arms in a matter of minutes. Stanley and Stanford will just have to suck it up and tolerate each other until then because her nerves are _shot_.

Vaguely, she wishes Ford had been able to find a real winter coat. She could do with his quiet, still presence nearby. It would be grounding to be reminded that she isn't alone or even the only one out of sorts over Jason's impending arrival. He'd let her chatter at him and make noncommittal hums that didn't really confirm whether or not he was listening but made her feel better anyway. But he hadn't been able to locate any of the actual coats that she _knows_ he has somewhere, and they have reasons for the various house rules they'd agreed on over the years (One hypothermia scare had been more than enough, thank you very much.) so she'd forced him back inside where it is an acceptable temperature for human beings. Of course, that meant that instead of tripping over her own tongue in a nervous monologue, she's left trapped in her own head.

On the other hand, it's probably a good thing Ley can't be out here with her. As much as she usually enjoys Stanley's company -- and as much as she doesn't like having him out of sight after such a long separation -- their emotions tend to feed off each other when they're both feeling stressed and it leads to a nasty spiral when they fail to head it off early. With the tether amplifying things on her husband's side, well, Carla doesn't want to think about the inevitable fight they'd fall into if they were near one another right now.

Carla pauses in her pacing long enough bite her lip, brush her hair back out of her face, and fix the resulting lopsided set of her cap.

_'What am I doing bringing Jason into this mess? Ford is a wreck. He's having trouble differentiating between dreams and reality! This isn't a situation a good mother would drag her children into!_

_'And that doesn't even take Stanley into account! He isn't any more in control of himself than Stanford is. I've already misjudged his instincts once...'_ Carla brushes a hand over the scarf around her neck. She's so bundled up she doubts Susan or Henry will notice anything amiss, but the fear lingers in the back of her mind behind all the others. She shakes her head and begins pacing again. _'I can't afford to do that with Jason. God, what if someone calls Child Protective Services? What if they decide I'm an unfit mother? What if they're right?_

_'This is a bad idea. I should, I should see about renting a hotel room in town! Yes, that could work! I can -- Susan would be willing to watch him for me in the evenings while I check in with Ley and Ford and make sure they haven't killed each other. It wouldn't be ideal but I could, I could..._

_'That isn't fair to anyone. Jason's missed his uncle. He has a right to know his father. I can't keep him from them.'_ Carla frowns and wrings her hands as she tries to work through her anxieties. _'Okay, Carla, think. Hope will get you farther than fear._

_'Alright. Okay. Jason helps Ford keep a more even keel. It's entirely possible that will be enough to get Ford back to a stable frame of mind without any further incidents. A few days with adequate sleep, food, and human contact will probably work wonders on him. It did last time. I don't see any reason it wouldn't work again._

_'Ley is learning quickly. It might only take a few days for him to sort himself out, too. Until then, I'll keep a close eye on him. It isn't like I planned to do much else for the next month or two, anyway._

_'...And if it turns out that things aren't safe for my baby, getting a hotel room is still an option.'_

Carla takes a shaky breath and nods to herself. She can do this. Jason deserves to have as much family as she can give him. Being under one roof will be good for all of them. ...Provided she can keep the twins from provoking one another into doing something stupid.

_'God, give me strength.'_


	35. Family

Carla all but flies across the porch.

Ford blinks and wanders closer to the window to investigate. He watches as the woman hangs off the edge of the porch by a hand wrapped around one of the vertical support beams for the roof. She waves wildly with her free arm and bounces on her toes like an excited child at the edge of the wooden platform. (If she hasn't undone at least some of his work on her shoulder, he'll be shocked.) Though he can't see from inside what it is she's waving at, it doesn't take a genius of his caliber to figure it out.

Stanford drums his fingers on the windowsill. Carla had vetoed letting him wait outside with her due to his lack of a winter coat. (He _knows_ he owns at least one or two. _Finding_ them, however, had proven more difficult than he'd anticipated.) Regardless, she can't expect him to stay inside the entire time, can she? Surely he can get away with spending just a few minutes outside to greet his nephew?

He manages to wait an additional forty-seven seconds before daring to open his cabin's front door and hovering indecisively in the entryway. It's cold and the wind is uncomfortable but it's far from being unbearable. Carla only flashes him a smile as the two cars slow to a stop in front of the porch. Apparently his 'inadequate winter dress' has been forgotten. For the moment. It's entirely possible that Carla will remember to scold him later for leaving the warmth of the cabin.

"Hi, Susan!" Carla calls eagerly as the other woman climbs out of the driver's seat of the first car -- Carla's car -- and Sheriff Michaels exits his own vehicle.

"Good to see ya, Hot Stuff!" Susan returns.

She never has gotten the nickname right. Ford wonders how much is a natural absent mindedness and how much might be linked to back to that 'Blind Eye' cult altering the normal mental states of the townspeople. (He's going to have to get around to doing something about them at some point, isn't he?) Or maybe she just doesn't understand because she never personally witnessed Carla's hot pants phase. Honestly, it could be any number of things and in the end it doesn't much matter what the reason is.

"It's good to see you, too!" Carla says as the two women hug, "Jason wasn't any trouble, was he?"

"Of course not!" Susan dismiss as they separate, "He was a little angel!"

"Momma! _Momma!_ " Jason calls from the car and Carla instantly moves to collect him before remembering herself.

She offers her friend a sheepish smile, "Sorry, Susan, I don't mean to be dismissive. I just need to --"

The waitress only laughs. "Go on!" she encourages, "You don't need to apologize for this!" Social obligations suspended, Carla rounds the car in record time and flings open the back door.

"Momma!" Jason shrieks a child's greeting.

"Jason!" Carla returns in the same happy cadence as her son. Short work is made of undoing the boy's car seat restraints and then he is promptly scooped up in his mother's arms and having his face bathed in a barrage of little kisses. Lips, cheeks, forehead, chin, nose, nothing is safe from the woman's playful assault.

"Momma, no!" Jason giggles, making a false show of attempting to fend off kisses, "You're being silly! No more kisses!"

Carla places another two kisses on her son's face before stopping. "And where's Momma's kiss?" she asks with an exaggerated pout, "Don't you love Momma anymore?"

"Yes!" the little boy exclaims, quick to reassure, "I love you, Momma!" Jason dutifully kisses his mother's cheek.

"That's better!" Carla says with a sunshine grin, "Did you have a good time at Miss Susan's house?"

"Yeah! We --"

"Hey there, good lookin'!"

Ford nearly jumps out of his skin in surprise, attention effectively torn from the reunion happening between mother and son. "Miss Wentworth," he says, hoping the flirty waitress will give up sooner than she usually does.

(And when did she join him on the porch? His vigilance is clearly slipping he realizes in dissatisfaction. He can't afford that. Not with Bill poised to take advantage of any mistake, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant.)

"So, when do I get to meet your super mysterious brother?" Susan asks and Stanford very deliberately does not glance back through the doorway and into the front room where Stanley is hopefully hidden from any curious townsfolk. "Carla says you finally tracked him down!"

The scientist clears his throat. "Ah, yes," he stammers, "It might be a while, yet." Or never. Susan is a nice enough woman, he supposes, but he also has absolutely no interest in dating her. Carla already makes some not-so-subtle comments meant to encourage him and he can just guess what will happen if Stan is introduced to the situation.

"That's too bad," the woman says, "I was looking forward to meeting Jason's father."

Ford snorts. "Jason may be Stanley's son, but I'm not sure I'd call him Jason's father." He knows halfway through the sentence that he shouldn't be saying it. He isn't going to try taking the words back, though. He's said them, now, and he stands by the sentiment.

Susan frowns up at him. "How do you mean, hon?" she asks in confusion.

The man resists the urge to hunch his shoulders and hide behind the tall collar of his trench coat. Like most of the populace of Gravity Falls, Susan is painfully ingenuous and the thought of there being disguised malice in her question is laughable. She honestly doesn't understand.

"Stanley hasn't done a thing to help raise Jason," he says bluntly. He's not entirely sure he's imagining the low growl coming from inside the house but Susan doesn't appear to hear it regardless, so he isn't about to acknowledge it.

"Carla always insisted he didn't know about Jason," Susan tries, still unsure about his reasoning.

Ford shrugs and does his best to beat back the desire to become defensive. Susan isn't trying to be difficult or find fault in anyone, he reminds himself. ~~And technically speaking, Stanley is eavesdropping on the conversation. He shouldn't have to go out of his way to spare his twin's feelings.~~ "He didn't," the man admits, "but the end result is the same. Stan wasn't here when Carla and Jason needed him. He hasn't earned the title of 'father' yet."

The woman's mouth forms an 'o' of realization before breaking into a bright smile. "I see!" she says cheerily, patting Stanford shoulder, "Don't worry, handsome! I'm sure he'll earn it soon!"

"That's --" Ford pauses and thinks. Stanley will probably be something of a disaster for a while before he settles into the role of father, but he doesn't really doubt that Stan will eventually settle into the role. There's a part of him that's already convinced that Stan has at least the _potential_ to be a good parent, he realizes. ~~Or he wouldn't feel so uncertain about his own place in Jason's life. Which is ridiculous because he's always known he's the uncle, not the father, never the father.~~ He grumbles, "-- a high probability."

Can a growl sound smug? Stanford is fairly certain the growl just took on a smug quality.

Susan only continues to smile, completely oblivious to both his distraction and misgivings. "See, it'll all work out!"

That's when Ford notices the sheriff coming to join them on the porch. "Mister Pines," the man says as he offers his hand.

"It's 'Doctor,' actually," he corrects and hesitates only briefly to accept the handshake. He can't tell if Sheriff Michaels' eyebrows jump because of the correction or because he's noticed the polydactyly. Either way, the man says nothing. "I apologize for my behavior yesterday."

"You're looking better today," the other man offers carefully and Ford has no illusions that he isn't being mentally evaluated and compared to the screaming madman from the day before.

"I'm feeling much better," Ford replies awkwardly, "Thank you for bringing Carla yesterday. Having her here helps immensely. And for escorting Jason and Miss Wentworth today."

"It was my pleasure," Sheriff Michaels claims mildly. Considering the fact that he had leveled his crossbow at the windshield of the other man's police cruiser the last time, Ford very much doubts that.

He's saved from being forced to make any more floundering small talk when Carla and Jason join them.

"Uncle Ford!" the child yells and nearly flings himself out of his mother's arms. Carla manages to keep the over-eager three-year-old from falling long enough for Stanford to catch him. The boy needs no prompting to settle comfortably in the scientist's hold or kiss his cheek. "Hi, Uncle Ford!" Jason chirps and announces, "Momma and me are home!"

Stanford freezes in place. It's too perfect. The whole scenario is too perfect. He must be dreaming again. How long has he been asleep? How much of this has been a dream? How much longer will this go on before Cipher gets bored and people begin spontaneously combusting? Or exploding? Reveal themselves as the shapeshifter, free of its imprisonment and looking for revenge? Or perhaps Cipher will choose a more direct threat in the form of yellow eyes and manic laughter? Will Cipher use Ford's own hands to --

There are fingers threading through his hair.

Stanford blinks. The wards under his scalp, specifically designed to keep Bill Cipher _out of his head_ , warm as the activate... And nothing changes.

This is _real_. It isn't a dream cooked up by Bill to trick him.

"Relax, Stanford," Carla instructs as she pulls her hand back, "There's no reason to panic." She doesn't look away from him as she blindly tugs her right glove back onto her hand.

Jason is more direct, as children often are. The boy catches his face in two small, mitten-covered hands and states in a child's approximation of solemnity, "You're not asleep, Uncle Ford."

"O-oh," he sighs, almost collapsing in relief and instead leaning heavily against the doorjamb.

Jason, at least, seems satisfied with his response. (Susan looks concerned, and Ford isn't at all surprised to see that Sheriff Michaels is again uneasy. But Carla is already doing damage control with an artificially cheery smile and easy assurances, "He just needs a bit more sleep at night and less caffeine during the day. He'll be fine! Really!" and he trusts her to do a better job of it than he could anyway.)

His nephew wraps little arms around his neck in a hug. "It's okay," the boy says, "I'm here. You're not alone."

Ford buries his face in Jason's riot of curls and breathes. In a low whisper, he says, "Welcome home, my boy."

Jason apparently takes that as his cue to tell his uncle all about his latest adventure and proceeds to babble on about Susan's menagerie of house cats. Ford listens more to the child's tone and pitch than to the actual words being used and focuses on the grounding weight of the little boy in his arms.

It's the closest to whole he's felt in a long time.


	36. Tangled Up Heartstrings

Stanley waits impatiently for Carla and Ford to send the strangers on their way. (He already likes that Susan woman, but there will be time to introduce himself to Carla's friend and thoroughly embarrass his brother _later_.) It's taking seemingly forever and he isn't allowed to go out and frighten the locals. Apparently, for all the 'there is no normal in Gravity Falls' spiel, a gargoyle might still be unwelcome and feared around town. Or maybe not. Ford hadn't been sure, but neither wife nor twin had been willing to let him risk being seen and finding out the hard way. ~~It's a good thing for Ford, too, because he's saying some things that Stan would happily pound him into the ground for.~~

And then Carla finally brings Jason close enough that Stanley can see him with his own eyes. He barely has time to register the fact that he's looking at _his son_ before the boy in question twists in Carla's arms and as good as _leaps_ for Stanford. In a shrill pitch more easily heard by dogs than people, Jason yells, "Uncle Ford!" Carla struggles to avoid an unfortunate tumble and Ford scrambles to grab hold of the tiny body and Stan quietly has a heart attack. Somehow, Jason finds his way into Stanford's arms without any major incidents.

The gargoyle presses a hand against his chest and draws in a deep breath as he attempts to slow his heartbeat to a more healthy tempo. "Jeez, kid," Stanley grumbles, "I've been a father for all of a second and you're already trying to give me a coronary."

"Hi, Uncle Ford! Momma and me are home!" Jason says cheerily, causing Stan to forget his panic in favor of awe over the simple fact that the child _exists_. Stanley has a son. And he's just like Carla, from his curly hair to his small nose to his bright smile. Stan's in love. Absolutely, utterly, instantly, in love. His son is _perfect_.

Stanley watches as his twin goes stock still and Carla quickly cycles through looking surprised-wary-calm like she did when... Uh-oh.

The gargoyle is a split-second away from pouncing on Ford and wrestling his son from his twin but his wife acts sooner. Carla peels off her glove in one moment and buries her fingers in Ford's hair, just over his ear, in the next. Stanley watches the same wards from this morning flash into being before disappearing. For whatever reason, though, it brings Ford back to himself. (He's going to need to ask about that later. He'd been under the impression Stanford only needed help with those anti-space-alien wards while he was _asleep_.)

"Relax, Stanford. There's no reason to panic," she says gently as she tugs her glove back on. Carla doesn't touch Ford again but she watches him closely.

She isn't the only one, Stan notes. Susan and the cop are both staring, too. He's really starting to get irritated with their continued presence. He needs to be down there but he also isn't supposed to let himself be seen.

Jason puts his hands on either side of Stanford's face. "You're not asleep, Uncle Ford," the boy says seriously.

"O-oh." The scientist trembles ever so slightly and falls back against the doorframe.

Carla immediately turns to the two visitors and starts in on distracting them from the wreck that is Stanford Pines. "Well, thank you very much for bringing Jason and returning the car! I think it's time everyone got out of this cold, though! Goodbye, Susan, Henry!"

"Are you sure you don't need another pair of hands around the place, hon?"

"Ma'am, maybe we should take your brother to a hospital or --"

"No, no!" Carla insists, "He just needs a bit more sleep at night and less caffeine during the day. He'll be fine! Really!" It's not quite a lie, not really, but she's working hard to downplay the seriousness of Ford's issues. (Of course, there isn't a neat, tidy way to navigate civil conversations after bringing up demon possession, sleep deprivation, and paranoia, is there?)

Meanwhile, his son wraps Stanley's twin in the best hug his short arms can manage. "It's okay. I'm here," the Jason reassures his uncle while Carla is busy, "You're not alone."

Ford bows his head and tightens his grip on the child he's holding. The words are spoken so softly that even with his enhanced hearing the gargoyle almost misses them, "Welcome home, my boy." Stan watches as all the tension his brother has been holding on to since before Stan arrived gradually drains from Ford's body. Tension that's persisted through the past few days (and likely far longer than that) melts away as Jason babbles on about chasing 'Miss Susan's kitties' around her house.

Oh.

Oh, _shit_.

It's not just Stanford's relationship with _Carla_ that he's going to need to untangle, is it? Because it's just like Ford said earlier, _Stan hasn't been here_. And Ford had gone and made himself comfortable in the hole Stan's absence had created in Carla's and Jason's lives, hadn't he? He's stolen Stan's family out from under him before he ever knew he had one.

The gargoyle isn't sure if he feels more enraged or crushed by the realization but he does know he wants to punch something until it breaks. The only question is whether or not he'll be able to convince himself not to make that something Ford.

As if in tune with his thoughts, the traitor glances at him and poorly suppresses a flinch. Ford knows _exactly_ what he's done, doesn't he? Stanford looks away with a guilty expression and hefts Jason to his right before shifting to stand further inside the cabin.

...Which in turn allows Stanley the best view of his son he's had so far.

A growl he hadn't even been aware he was making dies in his throat and Stan blinks. That's a peace offering, a metaphorical olive branch. He's one-hundred percent certain of it.

Fine. He'll find something later to break that isn't his twin's face.

"Not so fast," Carla interjects, having successfully seen off the cop and Susan. She dumps a duffle bag through the entryway and easily reclaims her son, though Ford is a bit reluctant to let the boy go. "First things first. It's been awhile," she reminds and asks, "Jason, what are the three big rules for Uncle Ford's home?"

Jason opens his mouth and puts his hands together. The boy stops, looks down at his hands, and frowns. "Momma, I can't keep track with mittens on!" he complains. Little hands fumble to pull off the offending items.

"I'll get them," Ford offers. It's the work of seconds to help the child out to the hand coverings and he confides, "I never liked wearing mittens, either."

"Is that why Momma gives you gloves for Christmas?"

"It's tradition," Ford answers, "I have more than enough, at this point. I'm not sure why she still wraps them, though. I already know what's going to be inside the present every year." He glances at Carla.

"It's tradition," she parrots back with a smirk, "And I don't see any reason to mess with a winning strategy. You _like_ getting something you know was made special for you." Carla kisses the man's cheek.

"I do at that," Ford admits as he ducks his head with a small smile and light flush taking over his face.

A case of 'mutual attraction' and 'codependency' Stan's ass. Ford is downright smitten, and head over heels besides. And all the while Carla is doing everything to _encourage_ the damned crush. (She has to realize what she's doing, doesn't she? She can't be oblivious when Ford is _this_ bad at hiding it. ~~He almost wishes he'd been right about the hippie. That, at least, had been simple.~~ ) The gargoyle feels a headache coming on to match the heartache he's already trying to beat into submission. Just how is he supposed to fix this mess?

Later. He'll think about tackling all those problems much, much later.

"Now then," Carla says, completely unaware of Stanley's inner turmoil, "Jason? The rules?"

The boy pulls down on his left pinky finger with his opposite hand. "Don't touch anything that is on fire," Jason recites, which is a good rule and Stan doesn't have to guess why it might be emphasised around Ford and his experiments, "esp-ecially if it's _blue_."

Okay, getting picky about the color is a little strange.

Jason catches his ring finger next. "Call for Momma or Uncle Ford if I see something weird, because it could be danger-ous." Also good. "And gnomes count, too, because they're not nice and not friends. But it's still rude to steal their hats, so don't do that."

Gnomes? Really? And why would anyone want to steal their hats?

The child tugs down a third finger. "Talking triangles are bad. Don't trust them."

What. The hell.

"And what is the only thing we say to bad triangles?" Carla prompts.

Jason sticks his tongue out and blows a wet raspberry. Carla beams and Ford smothers a chuckle.

"That's my baby!" the mother cheers.

Stanley has a feeling he's either unknowingly tripped into the Nightfall Zone or he's still missing something big.


	37. A Hero's Greeting

"Now, then," Carla says with a grin as she bounces their son on her hip and finally remembers to close the door behind her, "We have a surprise for you, Jason!" She glances briefly up at Stan and Stan...

The gargoyle freezes like a deer in headlights.

He's not ready, he realizes suddenly. He is in no way, shape, or form ready.

~~This is going to end badly. And probably in tears. He's a monster and his own son is going to be afraid of him. Or hate him. Or otherwise Stan will just find a way to instantly screw it up like he does everything else. He doesn't have a clue about how to be a good father. Hell, he should probably be _glad_ that Ford is already so comfortable in the role because Stan doesn't know why he ever let himself think he could be someone's dad. This is a mistake. He's going to ruin everything. What does he think he's doing here?~~

Carla doesn't see. Her attention is already back on the child in her arms. "Uncle Ford found Daddy!" she announces.

"Daddy?" Jason says in an exaggerated gasp, little hands flying up to his face, before twisting this way and that to look around the room. Upon failing to find another person that he previously hadn't seen, the boy crosses his arms and demands with a pout, "Where's Daddy? He isn't here!"

Carla giggles, kisses her son's forehead, and points as she says, "Look _up_."

The moment Jason catches sight of him, Stan finds himself holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable fallout. In the ensuing stillness, Stan stares at his son and the boy stares back. Neither of them seem to quite know what to make of each other.

Well, there's no screaming ~~yet~~.

Stanley scrapes together what he can find of his courage and leaves the safety of his perch. His wings flare out on instinct to slow his fall but he still hits the ground hard. There's a loud _THWUMP!_ as he lands in a half-crouch and the floorboards groan under the pressure. Slowly, afraid to move too quickly, Stanley straightens up without looking away from his son.

Jason's eyes are wide and his mouth is open in a small 'o' as he peers up at the gargoyle. The child blinks and then the screaming starts.

"Batguy!" Jason yells and suddenly there is a small body flying at him.

Stan manages to catch the boy in a knee-jerk reaction and Jason is safely tucked against his chest by the time thought re-enters the equation. It's only then he has time to register what his son has just called him. "Batguy?" he questions. Like comic book hero, billionaire, and genius detective Batguy? _That_ Batguy? Stan can feel himself melting into a puddle of goo.

Ford bursts into laughter, wrapping one arm around his stomach and placing the opposite hand over his mouth in a poor attempt to suppress the noise. Carla bites her lip and her eyes crinkle at the corners as she fights back her own fit of merriment. Stan barely notices beyond taking a distracted half-second to identify the new sounds before all of his attention is returned to the perfect, tiny gremlin in his arms.

His son thinks he's a hero.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never used one before but I'm thinking about recruiting a beta-reader. (Or possibly more than one; it depends.) Got any insights or recommendations for me?


End file.
